Tea, Coffee and Sibling Rivalry
by Forest Archer
Summary: The Musketeers in a modern setting. A series of connected oneshots; some light-hearted, others hurt/comfort, all focusing on the incredible bond of the Musketeers. (Chapter 16: A new case leads to a trap, and someone who wants to see the Musketeers end.)
1. Coffee

_(A/N: This is a very random AU idea where the musketeers are a modern crime investigative team. I've not tried anything like this before; I hope you enjoy it!)_

* * *

"You can't be serious."

D'Artagnan stared. His confusion was almost a mirror of Aramis', except that his colleague's bemusement was the result of disbelief, rather than a total lack of understanding of what was going on.

"About... what?" d'Artagnan asked, raising his eyebrows at Porthos, who was lurking in the doorway. There was no help to be found from that quarter, though, as the man simply shook his head. Was that a gesture of solidarity in the face of Aramis' oddities, or did Porthos know something he didn't?

Aramis threw his hands wildly into the air before plucking the fourth cup out of the cardboard container in d'Artagnan's hands.

"This!"

"That's a cup of coffee."

"Exactly!"

Still nothing from Porthos, who d'Artagnan began to suspect was being deliberately oblivious to his attempts to non-verbally request an evac. Aramis was still staring at him like he was insane.

"It's a cup of coffee," d'Artagnan repeated slowly, exaggerating the words. "From that nice little place in the next street, your favourite, right? Since we've all been dragged in early on a Saturday for this case, I figured you might like some coffee. Apparently that means I've kick-started the apocalypse, so I guess I should apologise for that."

Finally, Porthos cracked a smile, but Aramis gave a loud cry in Spanish, of which the only word d'Artagnan could pick out was 'God'. He then flung an arm round d'Artagnan's shoulders - luckily the one that wasn't holding the offending cup.

"Oh, d'Artagnan, my brother! I know you're new here-"

"It's been three months, Aramis."

"-and you're barely more than a child-"

"I'm twenty four, Aramis, and only five years younger than you."

"-but there are some things you must understand about the world! You can't give that to Athos."

"Why, is he lactose intolerant?"

Porthos was now definitely chuckling quietly, though d'Artagnan had given up trying to make eye contact and had no idea which one of them was amusing him. Knowing full well Aramis would follow, d'Artagnan dodged round him and into the office. It was empty apart from them, occupied only by gently humming computers. Ah, the manifold joys of being on call. He wasn't sure what the situation was, but given that Athos wasn't there bringing the errant members of the team into line, the case they'd been brought in for couldn't be too urgent.

He deposited a cup on Porthos' desk and one on his own, but when he turned round again Aramis had snuck up perilously close.

"Of course not, my dear Gascon! But there are some things you only learn about our mysterious leader when you've been here some time. It took me at least five months to learn how to survive under his rule."

"Treville's not that bad," d'Artagnan said, smothering his own grin as Aramis gave him a look of despair.

"Not Treville - Athos! He's a dangerous creature, especially in the morning, _especially_ on weekends. He drinks enough at the best of times but Friday night's basically being given permission. He has very refined tastes. Athos doesn't drink coffee. It's tea, always. Earl grey, teabag steeped for precisely two minutes, and a dash of milk added after - it _must_ be after. Anything else is basically sacrilege. If you give him coffee, this day is going to be hell."

"Which is why you're confiscating it?"

"Precisely! You'd better give me the other one too, so he doesn't realise."

"I don't think you need any caffeine at all," d'Artagnan said, looking at him warily. "How are you this exuberant? It's way too early for me to have to deal with you."

"Don't look at me," Porthos said, forestalling d'Artagnan's next effort for rescue. "I had three years of being the only one who had to put up with him, ain't like Athos is a lot of help. S'your turn now."

D'Artagnan glared, regretting that he'd already given Porthos his drink and therefore lacked any bartering chips; the other man had already crashed in his desk chair and was contentedly sipping the coffee as he watched the show.

"Jealousy is unbecoming of you both," Aramis announced, sitting himself with frustrating grace on the edge of d'Artagnan's desk. "I have learned things few others know about our boss through careful investigation."

"So what you're saying," d'Artagnan said thoughtfully, "is that it takes someone with investigative skills far beyond his colleagues' to learn how Athos takes his drinks in the first five months of working with him?"

He was deliberately avoiding looking at either of them, but he could feel Porthos' eyes on him. Aramis was audibly delighted with his answer.

"Indeed! It took months of tracing his habits and enquiring around to discover the truth without raising his suspicions. It's proof of how much I like you that I'm willing to tell you the secret, by the way. I let Porthos get it wrong for a year. The boss'll be very impressed next time. For now, I suggest you hide that other cup before - good morning, Athos!"

D'Artagnan turned just as Athos rounded the corner. Like Aramis, he looked annoyingly immaculate despite the early hour (d'Artagnan's hair was still damp from his shower and his jacket was wrinkled from having been tossed on the floor the night before), but he at least had the decency to be speak quietly.

"Apologies for your lost weekend, gentlemen. We're due in Treville's office in five for the briefing."

Ignoring Aramis' painful lack of subtlety as he flapped his hands wildly, d'Artagnan handed the fourth cup over to Athos without a word before retreating to his own chair. He took a long draft of his own coffee (a very pleasant mocha) as he logged on to check his emails before the meeting. Aramis was still perched on his desk, which meant d'Artagnan had a very good seat to the moment when he first took a mouthful of the pilfered coffee.

It was a good moment. His mouth curved into an involuntary smile, before his eyes widened - the first signs of misgiving because of the flavour of his coffee (milky, with hazelnut syrup). Aramis' favourite, which meant he hadn't taken the cup intended for Athos.

Still pretending to be looking at his screen, d'Artagnan watched Aramis' gaze flick over to Porthos, who was already draining his cup (vanilla with extra cream) with a pleased expression.

Slowly, Aramis' head turned to Athos, who was checking through a file on his desk and, without looking, taking a drink.

Was Aramis actually holding his breath? Maybe he was waiting for the explosion, but he definitely suspected something already - and, when it came, Athos' reaction was so slight they might have missed it if they weren't watching.

A small sigh, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth. In anyone else, it would have been called a smile; Athos actually looked contented.

A phone rang; Athos picked up the receiver, listened briefly, then replaced it and nodded to the others. "We're up."

D'Artagnan made to follow as their boss led the way towards the corridor, but Aramis blocked his path. "How did you do that?"

He affected his most innocent expression. "Do what?"

"You got his drink right! I've seen Athos tear people a new one for as little as putting sugar in his tea, so you must have got it right, but-"

"The kid's good," Porthos said, clapping Aramis consolingly on the back, but the grin he gave d'Artagnan was rather more knowing than his words suggested. "Guess you can't win 'em all, buddy."

"But - but-"

"I suppose this means I've exceeded you already," d'Artagnan said with a broad, unreservedly smug grin, as Aramis stared at him in horror. "And to think it took you _five whole months_. Terrible, really."

Leaving Aramis standing there, stunned and speechless, d'Artagnan hurried after Athos, beaming all the way. Now _that_ was a good way to start the weekend.

He'd have to delete the text as quickly as possible, of course. It wouldn't do for Aramis to see the message he'd received half an hour before.

 _Tea for me, actually, earl grey - 2 min brew, dash of milk. Thanks, d'Artagnan._

Technically, it _might_ be cheating - but when you had three brothers to contend with, there was no such thing as playing fair.


	2. Rest

_(A/N: I wasn't originally planning to write any more for this, but the modern AU was something I found I wanted to explore a little more! Inspiration continues to be fairly random, and I can reasonably safely say that this and any pieces I might add later will be extremely light on plot, focusing instead on brotherly relationships. Thank you for reading and for the feedback on the first part - it's all greatly appreciated! This one's set in the same world as the first, and is chronologically after it, but stands independently.)_

* * *

Thirty seven hours.

For once, not even Aramis had a word to say about how long they'd been on the go for. Like the others, he wasn't sure he had the energy to create sound any more, let alone persuade his mouth to form the necessary words.

They'd all got the call at around 0400 the night before; now, slumped blearily in his chair, Aramis was vacantly watching the clock in the corner of his computer screen tick towards five in the evening. Huh, almost like the end of a regular work day. He could kind of remember what those had felt like, but it was a distant memory somewhere before the Musketeers.

Was he supposed to be doing something? Somewhere on the pixels beyond the clock, there was a blank page and a cursor blinking patiently at him, but he couldn't quite draw together enough brain function to remember why, or indeed how to use a keyboard.

Moving his head was thoroughly beyond Aramis at this point, but after the intensity of the last few days he didn't need to move to reassure himself that his brothers were close by.

He could hear Porthos; he was breathing deeply and loudly, with gentle sounds that were halfway to snoring. Heading towards sleep, but not there yet – which was good, because he got a bloody awful crick in his neck every time he fell asleep sprawled in his slightly too small chair, and Aramis didn't think he was going to have the energy to bring him paracetemol when Porthos woke up.

Athos was quieter, as ever, but the way his chair occasionally creaked was practically a shout coming from him. It meant Athos was restless, as shattered as the rest of them but unable to settle down. He was typing, too, no doubt producing his report (oh, _that_ was it) already, even though it would be so riddled with mistakes that Treville would quietly ignore the email until they were back in work and Athos had fixed it up.

Back in work. God, Aramis hoped it would be a week.

No, well, if he was honest, he was holding out hope for a month and an office-funded holiday somewhere really, really sunny.

And that left the youngest member of their little team, who –

Whose silence was like a big gaping hole where his weary-but-enthusiastic questions should have been, because d'Artagnan never seemed to flag as quickly as the rest of them and was endlessly keen to press on with the job and Aramis must be _really damn tired_ not to have noticed.

He sat up – too quickly, as it turned out. Utterly misjudging the force needed, Aramis managed to shoot his chair back and crash into a filing cabinet, but really it was the office's fault because who gave wheelie chairs to people and then made them work thirty seven hour shifts, anyway?

The sound of the crash had Athos up on his feet before Aramis had even stopped blinking the stars away; perhaps it had made him think of gunshots and explosions because he looked as alert as ever despite the shadows under his eyes. Porthos took a few seconds longer, but he came to with a lot less drama than Aramis, and stared over in bemusement.

"Wha' 're you doin'?"

The minimum possible number of syllables, that was the key. "D'Art?"

Athos caught on quickly, and the subtle release of tension from his shoulders relaxed Aramis so quickly that it was almost subconscious. If Athos wasn't worried, there wasn't anything to worry about; the world had been as simple as that ever since a night several years ago which Aramis remembered as a blur of wine, tropical fruit and _peace_. So before he'd even said a word, Aramis knew d'Artagnan was OK.

"Behind his desk. On the floor."

Understanding would have dawned if Aramis' mind had been ever so slightly more receptive to conscious thought; instead, he followed the simple instructions and traversed the distance to peer around d'Artagnan's abandoned desk.

And there the lad was – curled up on the patch of thin tile carpet between his desk and the office wall, head barely cushioned by his rolled up jacket, fast asleep.

So apparently d'Artagnan didn't snore. Somewhere, in the devious part of his mind that never quite slept, Aramis reluctantly checked that off as potential material in his war with the not-actually-new-any-more newbie.

No, there was something important here. Though the sleep haze, Aramis screwed up his face in concentration and tried to place his finger on it. OK, take the basics: long case. Team very tired. Brother asleep on floor. Problem. Needs solution.

Aramis looked up. Athos was staring blankly at his computer, no longer typing. Porthos was stretching out his joints with worryingly loud cracks, and once this was completed he sank back into the chair and closed his eyes again.

On one level, the medic in Aramis was crying out in protest, because they were all imminently close to falling asleep at their desks and however long they managed to sleep there, it was going to be about the least beneficial sleep ever, and they were still going to feel awful later. But it was more than that; much more importantly, they were his brothers, and Aramis needed to look after them.

There was no way they were going to make it home, though, because driving would be suicidal (and at any rate, Aramis was fairly sure that after that last encounter with the suspect who _definitely_ turned out to be guilty, his car was going to need some major repair work before he could even think about driving it, but he was trying not to think about his wounded baby) and he didn't even know where to find money for a taxi. Luckily, there was an alternative, in the form of the Garrison.

The name had been d'Artagnan's idea, though some credit should also go to beer; something to suit the military name of the organisation, he'd said, and Aramis had stridently pretended to disapprove while being secretly miffed that he hadn't thought of it himself. At any rate, it was the office's recreation room, little used because recreation wasn't something Musketeers were entirely familiar with, but in Aramis' recollection it was comfortably filled with sofas and beanbags and cushions and right now it sounded like heaven.

Athos, as ever, seemed to sense Aramis' gaze without him needing to say a word. And, that accomplished, Aramis simply waved a hand in the direction of the Garrison and knew Athos had understood from the little frown that creased his eyebrows.

"Report's still gonna be there tomorrow, 'thos," Aramis said, interpreting the expression and managing the highest number of consecutive syllables any of them had produced in the last hour. "Treville won't care. C'mon – need your help to get d'Artagnan over there."

The key was to imply that Athos could then come back to finish his work if he wanted to, and that his help was essential in order for d'Artagnan to be looked after. Never mind that Porthos was there and more or less able to help just as well as Athos, or that when Athos got all the way to the comfort of the Garrison he was hardly going to want to come all the way back...

Aramis was an evil genius, if he did say so himself.

Porthos knew the drill, of course, and hung back in his chair until Aramis and Athos had managed to rouse d'Artagnan just enough to get him standing and staggering in the direction of the Garrison, supported between them.

They were about halfway there before the lad seemed even slightly coherent.

"Where – what's going on?"

"Good, you're awake," Aramis said, pulling himself together enough to sound upbeat. No sense letting the boy worry when he needed to rest properly. "Maybe you can pull your own weight here, then? You're like a ton of bricks, kid, what do you eat, cheeseburgers for breakfast?"

That was definitely too many words. Aramis felt about ready to curl up on the floor himself but if he went down there was no way the other two would support themselves and they'd all end up down there.

"Please don't talk about food," d'Artagnan mumbled, sounded deeply queasy. "I don't want to do anything but sleep for _forever_."

Nearly there. At some point, Porthos had overtaken them, and he held the door open as the procession passed; as they made it into the room, Aramis realised he wasn't sure who was holding who up any more.

It was as divine as he'd imagined. Leaving d'Artagnan to Athos and Porthos' dubious care for a moment, Aramis went about grabbing all the soft things he could see and tossing them into a heap in the middle of the room. There was no one else around; where the rest of the unit was, Aramis had no idea, but maybe they'd had the common sense to go home rather than blithely claiming they could do the paperwork straight away.

Didn't matter. Right then, nothing mattered but the pile of cushions and the other three men tumbling down onto them; Aramis threw himself down too, and could practically feel his muscles crying out in happiness.

He hardly even remembered what the case had been now. Bad guy, running, moron with gun, something about his car, that familiar terror of seeing his brothers in the firing line...

But now, Athos gripped his hand briefly, Porthos was already halfway to snoring again, and d'Artagnan let out a happy little sigh before burrowing down into two beanbags.

It had been the longest day Aramis had known in years. Now, though, he could rest; they were safe.


	3. Movie Night

_(A/N: Again, thank you so much for reading and for the feedback - I'm very grateful for it! Writing for this world is enjoyable so I hope it's also fun to read.)_

* * *

The pizza was going cold.

In Porthos' opinion, this was quite a pressing point. It hadn't been a long day by their standards, but they'd got off work a little late and he'd not eaten since a hurried lunch hours ago. The tempting smells of cheese, meat and spices had been wafting up from the pile of boxes on his lap for the entire drive, and it was a herculean triumph that he hadn't eaten one of them yet. What was more remarkably was that the other occupants of the car didn't seem fazed.

Athos, sitting beside him in the back, didn't count. Athos didn't get fazed by anything short of - well, was Athos actually ever fazed? (Porthos' stomach didn't find the question important.) So his silence was hardly surprising, but it was d'Artagnan and Aramis who were proving to be the wild cards tonight. Aramis had pulled into the parking space a good five minutes ago but hadn't turned off the engine, and _no one had said anything about it_. Which was weird, right? The car would practically have reeked of tension if it didn't just smell like food, and the tension was definitely because of d'Artagnan.

If he was honest (and stopped thinking about food for a minute), Porthos knew why as clearly as Athos and Aramis obviously did. Porthos remembered the acute doubt and painful indecision of trying to figure out where you stood, what you were feeling, what it all meant; remembered, and had been diligently avoiding it for a long time. He was half inclined to think that it wasn't worth the effort, but he was willing to believe someone would eventually prove him wrong. And it seemed to him that d'Artagnan had already found the someone who made the awkwardness worth it, though the lad didn't seem to have realised it himself yet.

Porthos breathed in deeply. The temperature of the boxes had definitely dropped another few degrees, he was sure of it. The silence had dragged on so long now he wasn't sure if he could break it, but some things were important, dammit -

"Are you sure we should do this?"

Thank God, someone finally beat him to it. But d'Artagnan's voice was full of uncertainty and worry in a way that tugged on Porthos' protective instincts, and he wished he knew what to do in these situations. It was Aramis who spoke next, though.

"It was your idea."

"But what if she's busy? Or she doesn't want us there?"

Aramis hesitated, and Porthos waited. Most people who knew Aramis casually, especially those around the office who'd seen the budding competitiveness between him and their newest recruit over the last few months (particularly since the coffee incident), would expect a quip or teasing remark to follow. It was how their unit operated, anyway, to joke about life and death to pretend they weren't walking the fine line between the two.

Most people didn't know Aramis very well, because when it counted, he was there.

He reached over and gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder with a gentle expression.

"Come on, my friend. She told you herself she intended to spend the evening unpacking, correct? Yes, it's a Friday night, but she's exhausted and upset, which means she's more likely to fall asleep than sort out boxes, let alone have plans to go out. And she's one of us, not just a colleague but a friend. And what's the motto of the Musketeers?"

"Every man for himself?"

"Very funny. We're not going to let Constance be alone at a time like this. That jerk Bonacieux is making the divorce way harder on her than it needs to be and she's been in a new flat for a week that can't even have started to feel like home yet. Wouldn't you want friends around at a time like that?"

A very small sigh came from the passenger seat. Porthos couldn't see d'Artagnan's expression but he sensed the change in the car, and after another moment and a quick smile, Aramis turned the key and the engine finally fell silent.

"Aramis?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks," d'Artangnan said, so quietly Porthos wouldn't have heard it if there had been any other sounds beyond his brothers' breathing.

"'Course," Aramis replied simply, and clambered out of the car before anything more could be said.

In the privacy of the dark backseat, Porthos rolled his eyes. It was so indescribably like Aramis to act that way - an absolute pest until those moments when he was the most supportive friend you could want, even if he pretended otherwise.

"You ready?" Porthos muttered to Athos as d'Artagnan also left the car.

"I'm always ready."

Constance was as surprised as they'd expected, but fortunately delighted to see them. She did look tired, Porthos noted with concern, but not like she'd been crying. Her unpacking had progressed much further than his own would have done in so short a time and he was pleased to see that she'd started making the flat look homely. Not that he should have been surprised - it wasn't like Constance to be any other way.

She greeted them all with hugs - enthusiastic for him and Aramis, brief but heartfelt for Athos, and endearingly tentative for d'Artagnan. Did the pair of them have any idea how much effort it took for the others to hold back what they wanted to say? He could practically see Aramis turning purple from the effort of it. Porthos sometimes entertained himself by mentally planning how much he'd tease them about it in his speech at their wedding.

It was Athos' presence that seemed to surprise Constance the most, but she didn't say a word about it. Admittedly, movie nights weren't something Porthos considered to be Athos' thing either, which was no doubt why it meant so much to Constance - he was there for her, and her alone, and of course no one said a damn thing about it.

Stoic silence was something Porthos could get behind as well, of course, but sometimes he did wish they'd all just say what they were thinking.

Nonetheless, his more immediate problem had been solved, because they were in Constance's flat which meant he was finally allowed to eat. After dumping several pizza boxes on her coffee table Porthos settled himself on the sofa with a meat feast pizza and a plate he had accepted with a certain amount of bemusement from Aramis, who said something about protecting the new furnishings.

Whatever. Pizza.

Constance handed round beers and the five of them crashed around the small table to eat and, as it turned out, bicker about the choice of movie. To Porthos' never-ending surprise, it turned out to be Athos who'd brought a stack of DVDs, which apparently only Aramis had known about because he was loudly declaring his favourites while d'Artagnan watched with wide eyes. And it wasn't just that, it was the type of film - _Disney_ , _Pixar_ , _Dreamworks_... Basically, the type of film he wouldn't really have expected Athos to know existed, let alone to own.

"I told you I'm always ready," Athos said with a smug little smile when Porthos commented on the selection. "These are some of your favourites, I believe?" This was directed at Constance, who grinned.

"I can't believe you remembered! I've not been able to find my copies yet," she said, taking several boxes from Aramis to look through. "It must have been years ago we talked about this - I remember trying to convince you to watch this one when it came out."

"Going to the cinema to see a child's film might be a step too far," Athos admitted, and Porthos snorted at the image.

"Constance has enough enthusiasm for the both of you, you should have gone," Aramis said cheerfully. "She might have bought you a balloon afterwards. Or ice cream?"

"Only if he was good," she teased back, and Porthos felt a swell of contentment rise in him that had nothing to do with his sated hunger. He knew his brothers could lift his own mood on all but the darkest of days, but it never ceased to amaze him how they could do it for others, too, if they truly cared about them. Constance had been hurting deeply for the last month but the light was back in her eyes and that alone made it all worthwhile.

They'd nearly polished off the pizzas before a decision was made on the movie, though. Aramis and d'Artagnan bickered long and loud over the selection; d'Art wanted _Pirates of the Caribbean_ but Aramis was insisting on Shrek, apparently because the soundtrack was infinitely superior. (If he thought anyone would take the bet, he'd have staked the rest of the beer on it actually being because the film ended with a wedding.)

Constance insisted she didn't care about the film choice but, to be diplomatic, suggested they toss for it. Thirty seconds later, Aramis was putting the disc for _Shrek_ into the player and he and Athos joined Porthos on the sofa.

His brothers' evil genius was delightful when they weren't using it on him. The other two weren't big guys but between the three of them they managed to make the large sofa look uncomfortably full, which left the armchair the only other free seat.

"You're both little," Aramis said airily, pretending to be absorbed in skipping through the adverts to get to the menu. "You can share."

Constance excused herself briefly to microwave the popcorn Aramis had brought, and Porthos watched d'Artagnan out of the corner of his eye. The lad endearingly personified the expression of a rabbit caught in the headlights, looking totally out of his depth as he cautiously sat on the very edge of the armchair. When Constance was back and the opening credits started to play, he instantly shifted onto the floor, apparently deserted by the courage that allowed him to face down criminals on a daily basis.

"Don't be silly," Constance said, handing a bowl to Athos and the other to d'Artagnan, before tugging on his arm until he joined her. "There's plenty of room."

Kids definitely had complicated courting rituals, Porthos mused. He had to be subtle, but as the movie played he couldn't help glancing towards them a few times, in between joining in the commentary Aramis kept up throughout the feature. Aramis seemed incapable of watching the film in silence, but he was at least on good form tonight and even Porthos would admit that his impersonation of the grumpy ogre was excellent (and carried overtones of Athos on a bad day that Porthos suspected were deliberate).

Part way through the film, the commentary petered out, and it was a little while before Porthos realised why. It hadn't been long before d'Artagnan had leant properly back into the chair, and by the time the ogre had 'rescued' the princess she was curled against his side. What Aramis had noticed first was that, before the princess finished beating up the merry men, Constance had fallen asleep.

The expression on d'Artagnan's face was part-way between delight and terror. He had one hand around her shoulders, resting incredibly lightly on her arm, and sat perfectly still as though she'd wake and pull away if he moved. He was still smiling that sappy little smile when the credits rolled, though, and he looked over at the three of them so damn happily that Porthos could do nothing but shake his head and grin back.

If d'Artagnan guessed later that Aramis had used a trick coin, he'd probably forgive him, all things considered. And when, in a few months' time, he inevitably figured out what they'd all been doing, well, he'd probably forgive that one too.

Besides, Aramis got up to change the disc to _Curse of the Black Pearl_ without even waiting to be asked, and on his way back merely clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder much as he had done hours before in the car.

It had, all in all, been an excellent night.


	4. Festivities

_(A/N: This one has a different tone to the others and not a lot more plot, but I figured the holidays wouldn't quite go to plan for these guys. Thanks for reading!)_

* * *

The office was entirely dark except for the Christmas tree. Even the sky was clouded over so that no moonlight touched the windows, and the glass revealed nothing but gloom. Inside, the tiny tree lights flickered on and off in a pattern they'd been dancing for hours, a succession of blue, red, orange and green. They were too small to cast shadows on the ceiling or spread much light over the floor, but they gave the branches of the short tree a soft glow and illuminated a patch of the desk beneath them.

Athos, head in his hands, had been staring at it for the best part of two hours.

His body had a list of complaints, having passed through numb and moved onto painful some time ago. His back was still aching from an unfortunate fight the week before, he was starting to get a headache, hadn't eaten in longer than he was entirely sure about and he really, _really_ needed a drink. It was quarter past one in the morning, which he knew because he'd been counting the time in his head. Aramis was late, and his bloody tree was still lit up.

It was stupid, but he had felt his heart sink as midnight came and went. In some deep and perhaps childish part of himself, he'd let himself believe Aramis would not miss Christmas. Aramis adored the season, from the colourful decorations to the huge amounts of food to playing ridiculous games and curling up on the sofa watching movies together. Athos was well acquainted with his friend's festive traditions, as was Porthos - all stubbornly single and either without or unwilling to see relatives, they'd spent every Christmas together since that first evening when, despite having known each other only a few months, Aramis had collected them together after work on Christmas Eve and announced that they were staying the night and doing Christmas _properly_.

The memory of that first shared Christmas was almost enough to make him smile, even now, because Porthos and Aramis had argued over the best way to cook a turkey for so long that they'd almost ruined it before Athos took over. Between them they ended up with meat that was rather dry, roast potatoes that could politely be called crisped and Athos wasn't sure the vegetables had still even _been_ vegetables - and yet somehow, eating in front of _It's a Wonderful Life_ wearing a paper cracker hat, Athos had never had a better meal.

Twenty past one, and Athos glared at the tree. Aramis brought it in every year. It was almost a metre high and Athos, in a desperate attempt to assert some kind of control over the situation (it was their workplace, for heaven's sake, not a department store window) had said he wasn't allowed to put it up because they needed the floor space. So Aramis had cleared half of his desk and put the damn thing up there instead, unplugging the coffee machine on the wall behind him in order to power the lights. Athos hadn't been impressed.

Somehow, the daft thing had grown on him over the years, and he'd even suggested, this time, that Aramis set it up on the floor. Aramis had refused with a smug grin, pointing out that it was much more visible on his desk, and he'd hate for anyone to be unable to enjoy it.

It was Athos' fault, really, because he'd started planning things this year. It was exactly how it had been with _her_ \- as soon as he'd started believing it, started planning for their life together, that future had vanished. And yet he had, if he could admit it now, genuinely been looking forward to sharing the season and all their mad traditions with d'Artagnan. The extended team had been together for eight months now; it wasn't only d'Artagnan's first Christmas in Paris but also his first without his family, and Athos remembered what that was like - or at least remembered the drunk haze in which he'd ignored it. He, Porthos and Aramis had been discussing plans for a while, organising food and decorations, and informing d'Artagnan in no uncertain terms that he would be joining them.

And then it had happened. Just before they were due to leave on Christmas Eve, Treville had delivered the news: a long-standing operation had come to a head because a suspect had re-entered the country, and he needed Aramis. Aramis, whose fluency in several languages and personable nature allowed him to assume whatever identity was required and go undercover, to meet with one of the suspect's contacts, a guy known as Spencer whose allegiances they'd swayed months ago and lead the hunt for the man who'd gone to ground as soon as he'd arrived.

Objectively, Athos knew it had been the right choice - Aramis was the best for the job. Out of everyone in the department he trusted his own team the most to do what was needed, and of the four of them Aramis had had the necessary skills.

That objectivity was what made Athos hate his job sometimes, hate the command he had been assigned. It was an honour, the thing he was most proud of in his life, but it was also a burden - because his talent for rational thought and being led by strategy not emotions led to things like that, to watching his brother prepare for one of the most dangerous missions he'd ever undertaken, alone.

"He's a suspected killer," Athos had said - completely pointlessly, because they'd all been familiar with the case for over six months and they knew what the man was thought to have done, what a threat he posed. "He'll be looking for us just as we are for him. If he gets the slightest hint that you are law enforcement - even if he thinks you're French-"

"I know, Athos," Aramis said in a voice that was clearly supposed to calm him down, but even as he said it he was carefully tucking the new phone into his pocket and Athos' thoughts were swimming with everything that could go wrong.

He surged to his feet with a violence that made d'Artagnan start and Porthos tear his eyes away from Aramis to direct his concern at their leader. "It has to be complete cover, damn it! Everything you do must make you appear to be English - not just your words but everything down to which way you look first when you cross the street. If he suspects anything, he'll kill you, and we'll never find him."

As if Athos cared about that any more - even then when he had the three of them together in the safety of the office, even before anything had gone wrong, he would have demanded the whole thing be called off because they were his _brothers_ and he had to protect them because that was the only thing that made his life mean anything. But he was their leader and he could not afford the luxury of emotional judgement.

Aramis had looked at him and just _known_ , Athos had seen it in his eyes, in the softness of his smile. There was no more time for delays but if Athos clasped his hand more fiercely than usual Aramis made no mention of it. He'd hugged d'Artagnan, clapping the boy on the shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile; d'Artagnan looked comforted and Athos felt that he would have given anything to buy into Aramis' confidence. Porthos had walked him to the lift, postponing the moment of goodbye, and Treville had met him there to share a last private word on the way out.

And then it was just the three of them, silent and alone in the middle of a crowded office, with Aramis' Christmas tree.

They'd all spent the next twenty four hours in the office, having switched onto the Christmas Day shift without hesitation. It was remarkably easy to stay there, as Athos had discovered some years ago. It had showers, a canteen, the Garrison for a rest (not that Athos could have slept for the world), and coffee obtained from a different floor because by silent agreement none of them would unplug the tree lights. Technically there had been work they were meant to do, but Athos still wasn't sure what it had been and Treville hadn't tried to mobilise them. There was nothing to do but wait for a call, to let them know they were needed or that it was all OK.

Christmas Day passed in a haze altogether different from and yet somehow similar to those years before the Musketeers, as Athos tried to reassure himself that it was alright. Yes, Aramis had missed his check in, but he wasn't technically _late_ until Christmas Day was over. And it wasn't like the operation would be wrapped up in a single day, it could only be expected to take time, Aramis could only do so much...

Athos was dimly aware that outside the building were homes and families celebrating Christmas; opening presents, cooking lunch, pulling crackers, probably arguing and dealing with troublesome relatives. None of it felt real. It all belonged to the same world as the turkey in his fridge and the box of tinsel and baubles in his living room, a world that was suspended in time while he waited to find out if he would get his family back. He felt angry at everything - at Treville for taking this away from them, at the suspect's timing, at Aramis for accepting the job, at every family who'd spent the day watching television and playing stupid games when he'd been here waiting instead of listening to Aramis and Porthos inventing their own terrible cracker jokes and forcing d'Artagnan to try brussel sprouts.

He was at last starting to lose track of the time; he looked down from the tree, blinking the lights out of his eyes, and checked his phone. Nearly two am. He'd finally managed to persuade the others to go home sometime before midnight. Admittedly, he'd been vaguely surprised that it had worked, but he was willing (more than willing) to bet his commission that they weren't asleep. Neither of them had tried to contact him but he knew they'd be waiting. Athos toyed with the phone for a moment before replacing it. No good getting their hopes up just to say he hadn't heard anything.

Athos drifted. Dream mixed with conscious thought and his thoughts were full of darkness; he woke sharply to music that he was, for one bleak and horribly empty moment, sure was a funeral march. Awareness came in a surge and the realisation that Aramis wasn't dead (not dead, not dead, had to be alive) was a moment of painfully strong emotions, relief and terror twisting in his stomach like an angry snake. It was his ringtone, the obnoxiously chirpy tune d'Artagnan had managed to lock his phone onto. The display blinked to tell him that it was three am. He answered it with shaking hands, but his voice was always calm.

"This is Athos."

"Thank God. This would've been a shit time to get a wrong number."

Athos' heart stuttered and he sank back into the chair like melting snow, the sound of that voice relaxing muscles he hadn't realised were tense. The relief was so powerful he thought he might be about to break the habit of a lifetime and start crying; his very soul seemed to be knitting itself back together. His brother was there, alive, just at the other end of the phone, and Athos gripped it as though he could draw Aramis through. Not that his concern went away - because there was exhaustion in Aramis' voice that seemed to go bone deep and he knew his brother hadn't rested at all. But he kept it all out of his voice because the mission wasn't done until he came home.

"About time," he said, as though he wasn't silently screaming at Aramis to come back. "If the turkey's gone out of date, I'm blaming you."

The huff of laughter he got in response was like a balm over the fear of the last day. "I'm sorry I robbed you of the chance to show how much better you are at cooking than the rest of us. Maybe next Christmas. If we all quit our jobs."

None of them would ever entertain the idea seriously - this was who they were, it was in their blood, however much they spilt.

"What's happening?" Athos demanded, unable to wait any longer. "Did you meet Spencer? Do you know where to start looking?"

There was the sound of a car door slamming, and wind interfered with the phone for a moment. "Hang on," Aramis said, and then more distantly Athos could hear him speaking quickly to someone else.

His heart raced. Aramis was speaking to him in French on the phone, and to the person he was with - he clearly wasn't alone but he also wasn't maintaining his cover. Yet he was free to speak to Athos and he sounded as relaxed as could be expected. Could it mean-

"You still there?"

"Of course I am! What's going on?"

"We've got him," Aramis said simply, as though this was a run of the mill accomplishment, not worth mentioning _at the start of the conversation_. "He'd already set up a meet with Spencer so I went along, but he wouldn't say where - just gave us directions, so I couldn't send anyone ahead. He bought the cover, though he wasn't happy I was there... And I made a call first chance I got, backup came in, and we got him."

There were more holes in this story than the doilies Athos' mother used to collect. He was being given a grossly glossed over version of what had happened, he knew - Aramis' story didn't account for the time he'd been gone or how they'd caught the guy, which definitely meant something had gone completely wrong and Aramis didn't want to own up to it. Athos breathed slowly, then asked the question perfectly calmly.

"Aramis, where are you?"

Silence stretched as though Aramis was seriously considering not answering the question, but that silence let in enough of the background noise that Athos realised the truth anyway. "At the hospital."

"Are you going to explain why?"

"I'm fine, Athos, really. It's just a scratch."

"Aramis."

"My cover was perfect, alright? Spencer just turned out to be more of an ass and a lot less loyal than I thought-"

"Alright," Athos said, beginning to grasp what had happened and realising that he didn't have the energy to deal with it at all. "Have you spoken to Treville?"

"No. I called you first."

The straightforward loyalty, simple and unquestioning, brought back that strange lump in Athos' throat and when he talked this time his voice was not so even and sounded strange, as though he had a cold.

"Good. Right. I'll call Treville. I will be at the hospital in half an hour and if you're not sitting quietly and letting the doctors do whatever they need to, you're going to be on desk duty so long you forget how to stand up. Understood?"

"Understood, Athos," Aramis said, and his voice was wonderfully warm. "I missed you too."

* * *

By seven in the morning, Athos was pulling up outside his flat with Aramis in the passenger seat. They'd not spoken much on the drive from the hospital. The knife wound on his arm really had turned out to be minor, for once, and it had been treated and bandaged without trouble. Aramis hadn't offered any details of what had happened and Athos hadn't pressed. The story would emerge eventually and he could wait until his friend was ready to process what had happened. For now, Athos had his family together, and he really didn't care about anything else.

Aramis looked as ready to pass out as Athos felt, but clambered out of the car with a contented smile, looking up at the block of flats as though he'd been away for months. They passed Porthos' car on the way to the door, and Aramis laughed softly.

"They're here?"

"I texted them before I called Treville."

"Of course."

They took the lift because neither of them were fit for the stairs at the moment, and the quiet classical music felt out of place somehow. Athos unlocked the door, looking forward to rest - which was why Aramis was with him, because it would be some time before rest was possible if Athos didn't have concrete proof that his brother was alive.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had told him they would be in his apartment, but he still didn't expect what he found there. The walls and furniture had been strung around with an obscene amount of tinsel, confetti was sprinkled on all the flat surfaces and baubles had been hung with impressive creativity off of every available object. It looked, Athos felt, like a Christmas shop had thrown up over his apartment. And then he realised that they must have been back to the office after he left, because Aramis' Christmas tree was sitting on his coffee table, bright lights and all. He wasn't sure whether he loved or hated the sight of it.

He stood aside to let Aramis pass, and the smile on his friend's tired face seemed brighter than all the little bulbs combined. As Aramis turned, absorbing the decorations, Athos realised that his stomach was rumbling - in response to the smells coming from his kitchen.

He closed the door mechanically, not believing what his senses were telling him, but there was barely a second to think about it before Porthos had flung himself out of the kitchen and practically pounced on Aramis. The hug Porthos gave him looked fierce enough to crack his ribs but Aramis returned it, and Athos looked away so that he wouldn't have to pretend not to see the way they were clinging to each other like anchors.

D'Artagnan followed within seconds and Aramis managed to detach himself to embrace the young man - a gentler hug, but no less sincere.

Athos liked these moments. They could pretend all they wanted with words, act as though things didn't matter, but it was the unspoken between them that never lied. If he were a different man, Athos would throw himself into the middle of it all, give and accept that unspoken bond, but somehow even that was difficult for him. To leave behind the objectivity of work, to draw a distinction between the times they were his team and the times they were his brothers. That line was so blurred he wasn't sure it existed at all.

So he gave them their moment, then spoke instead. "You haven't?" he said, looking at Porthos and d'Artagnan, and realising belatedly that the latter was wearing an apron.

"Yes, we have," d'Artagnan said cheerfully, and laughed as understanding dawned on Aramis' face. "Started when we got your message."

"We'd already done the decorations," Porthos said, a hand resting easily on Aramis' shoulder. "Much easier without the pair of them, actually," he added, directing the words at d'Artagnan. "Athos always wants it colour co-ordinated, and Aramis just wants to throw glitter everywhere."

Athos contemplated making a remark about the tinsel explosion they've concocted but then he looked, really looked, at the three of them. There were dark shadows under all of their eyes, and he knew what lurked behind them. Fear for Aramis' safety for d'Artagnan and Porthos, and more besides - grief in d'Artagnan for this first holiday as an orphan, and the hardness in Porthos of too long left alone. And Aramis - if anyone needed this, it was him, and Athos found that he wanted nothing more than for that look of wonder to stay on his face forever, to chase away the shadows in his soul.

So he just smiled, giving his apartment over to this belated Christmas, and felt his spirits lift uncontrollably as Aramis gave a delighted laugh and proclaimed it all to be perfect.

They ate Christmas dinner at eight in the morning, an impressive spread of turkey, potatoes and all the trimmings that would probably have fed twice as many people. Porthos' roast potatoes had been honed to a fine art over the years, and it turned out that a slightly bashful d'Artagnan was responsible for the turkey, which was cooked far better than the other three had ever managed. It was the first real meal any of them had had for at least two days and they ate it as enthusiastically as it deserved, complete with several bottles of wine on the basis that anything was permissible at Christmas.

Afterwards, thoroughly bursting at the seams and feeling as though they might never move again, the four of them crashed out on the sofas around the fire, while a festive movie none of them were really watching played on the television. Tomorrow - or rather, later today - there would be time for everything else: games of charades or monopoly that Athos would pretend not to want to play; crackers and stupid jokes and Porthos introducing d'Artagnan to his vast leftover sandwiches; Aramis and Porthos bickering over which films to watch; them all following Aramis to church if he wanted to go. There was time for it all, time with them, and that was all Athos could have wanted.

The future was there, safe, so for now he could simply lie there, surrounded by his brothers. Time and time again they have proved what they meant to each other and the understanding between them was now effortless, which is why Athos wasn't even surprised when Aramis shuffled closer on the sofa and wrapped his good arm around Athos' shoulders without saying a word. It was a moment worth everything else - worth the wait, worth the fear, worth the phone call with Treville in which he politely informed his boss that Aramis' report could wait until the new year. The silent, one-armed hug was all he needed to now that now, at last, he did not have to be a leader. He was just another brother, glad beyond all measure that his family was safe.

Athos rested his head on Aramis' shoulder, and slept.


	5. The Rookie

_(A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter for your lovely words. I especially want to thank the anonymous reviewers because I couldn't reply to you; your feedback was incredibly kind and really made me happy! And thanks to everyone again for reading. As for this chapter, all I can say is that I have no idea how this happened...)_

* * *

"Can we keep him?"

"Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"No."

"'ave a heart, Athos, look at the boy's face."

"I don't care."

"Athos."

"I'm not listening to any more of this."

"We're getting through to him! D'Artagnan, put it in his lap!"

"Oh for God's sake-"

Athos was cut off by the sudden appearance on his legs of a small, wriggling ball of fur. Without hesitation, he scooped it up and deposited it on his desk, glowering around at his colleagues.

"I want to say this is unbelievable, but frankly, there's nothing you three can do to surprise me any more," he said sourly, brushing his trousers. Somehow, even in those brief seconds, he'd ended up with ginger fur all over the previously neat black fabric.

Aramis, for one, didn't seem to hear him. He was practically glowing, having selected Athos' favourite pen from atop a pile of paperwork and now dragging it over the table for the delight of the unkempt but very enthusiastic kitten. There was a crash, a crow from Aramis and a deep groan from Athos as the cat collided with a cardboard cup, spilling tea over the floor in a spectacular fashion.

There was barely a quick "Sorry, Athos!" before the game resumed.

D'Artagnan, unfortunately, was not so easily distracted. He was still looking at Athos with the same baleful eyes, and the team leader sighed.

"D'Artagnan. This is an office, not a home. We cannot keep a cat here."

"You're gonna lose this argument eventually," Porthos said with an annoying amount of cheer. "Might as well give up now."

He considered giving up and simply lying down on his desk to pretend he didn't work with children - but only for a moment, because his desk was still acting as a cat's playpen. Awesome.

Time for a new angle. "You can't have an animal in here. Some people might be severely allergic to cat hair." He caught himself just before saying it was a health and safety problem, because he sometimes thought d'Artagnan took that kind of thing as a challenge.

"I've already checked!" d'Artagnan replied cheerfully. "There's that list of what's banned from the office, remember? Turns out only Pierre's allergic to cats, and he reckons it's more the long haired ones anyway, and he said it's alright as long as he doesn't touch them. The cat would be an honorary musketeer. Our little rookie. Great for team spirit."

The plaintive expression definitely wasn't getting to Athos at all, because he was made of stone. Very stony stone. Impenetrable. Besides, it wasn't like this was his fault, anyway, it simply wasn't going to work.

"I don't know why you're asking me. It's not like I'd be able to clear something like this, even if it wasn't the most monumentally insane idea. This is an office. That is a cat. These two things do not combine."

"Well..."

As soon as he heard the speculative note in Aramis' voice, Athos knew he was screwed.

"Actually, I heard of some offices introducing this kind of thing. Oops - no, Athos, he didn't mean to! What did he type? Ah - as I was saying, I've heard of some offices where they occasionally bring in cats for the workers to play with. And it's been shown to heighten productivity enormously."

Even Porthos managed to keep a straight face. "Yep. You can't argue with that kind of study, Athos. We'd be way more productive."

"You're all idiots."

"Yes!" d'Artagnan yelled, punching the air in triumph. Porthos gave him a high five, and Aramis managed to look away from the cat long enough to beam up at them.

Athos, on the other hand, simply stared. "What?"

"We've won!"

"I said no!"

"Nope, you caved."

"How the hell-"

"You only ever insult us when you've given up arguing, mate," Porthos said matter-of-factly. Apparently oblivious to the skull piercing glare he was being sent, Porthos grabbed a pouch of cat treats from the bag on d'Artagnan's desk and began tossing them to the very pleased kitten.

 _"What on earth is going on here?"_

Athos just had time to mentally thank the universe for sending him backup before he found the kitten suddenly in his lap again, and the other three arrayed in front of him to conceal him from view. Treville had emerged from his office and was watching them with no expression on his face except the raising of his eyebrows. The others tightened their ranks.

The kitten, apparently not at all put off by this sudden change of situation, sniffed Athos' fingers curiously.

D'Artagnan was the first to speak up. "Well, sir, it's a funny story. We were just rounding up the case today, making sure we followed due procedure as we worked alongside the noble and dutiful police officers to apprehend the suspect-"

"-and already planning how to ensure our reports were as thorough and efficiently completed as possible-"

"-when we came across a situation that required our involvement, as representatives of this fine institute and in accordance with our responsibility as caretakers of the people of this country."

The boy could wrap this up as well as he wanted, but he couldn't really improve on the basic fact that there was currently a small, probably flea-infested cat licking the palm of Athos' hand at the moment. It was a strange sensation and he was starting to smell like fish, even though they'd only been feeding the thing dried food.

As the story got lengthier and more elaborate, Athos initially took pleasure in imagining the shade of puce the captain was turning (he was, at least for now, safe from the explosion behind the wall made by his weird friends). His attention was, though, gradually diverted. When it had exhausted the opportunities presented by Athos' hands, it padded briefly on his trousers (and Athos toyed with the idea of throwing the cat at Aramis to see how he liked it), then curled up in his lap and started to purr. Athos touched its back with a couple of fingers and the purr deepened into a sound like a motor engine, and the kitten closed its eyes.

It was unfortunate that this was apparently the moment when the peak of the story was reached, and everyone was looking at him.

"I _see_." Treville's face was still impassive, and Athos kept his the same only by the most extreme effort of will. _He couldn't kill his co-workers in front of his boss. Probably frowned upon._

"Do you have anything to add, Athos?"

There were three sets of pleading eyes on him. Four, actually, if you counted the little terror on his lap who had looked up when he stopped stroking it.

Oh, what the hell. It was kind of cute.

"We could give it a bed in the Garrison, sir."

He was definitely going soft as he got older, because the looks of delight on his brothers' faces very nearly made up for how much trouble there was going to come of this. Treville, for the first time, broke the facade. The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile, gone before the other three had turned back to him.

He'd clearly already made his decision, but he dragged the moment out, staring each of them down.

"There will be a trial period," he said finally, having to speak louder over the shouts of joy. "If I get _any_ complaints, if there are any allergy problems or if there is a single excrement incident, the cat is out. Are we clear?"

"Yes sir, absolutely, sir!"

They were definitely children, Athos decided, as the three of them high-fived, bumped fists and launched into a detailed discussion of exactly whose job it was going to be to teach the cat to use a litter tray. Athos would be willing to bet money on it missing at least once; Treville's leeway would extend only so far, and it would probably end up coming to live with one of them at some point. He had a deep foreboding that it might end up being him.

Still. The kitten had settled back down again as Athos stroked its back gently; it was ignoring the ridiculous level of noise with a great amount of resolution and dignity, and it seemed to have decided that his lap made quite a pleasant bed. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

All the same, he'd be damned if he was going to let those three name the poor thing.


	6. Jonny

_(A/N: When I wrote the last chapter, I can't say I expected to continue that particular line of madness - but this follow up has been knocking around my head for a while, so here we are! Significantly delayed because I've been finding it hard to get myself writing lately, but it's done at last. And I have to say it again -_ _I really am so grateful for all the feedback, you guys are brilliantly encouraging!)_

* * *

The Musketeers headquarters had been invaded more successfully than an entire army could have managed, and it had only taken a force of one.

Truthfully, d'Artagnan had never thought they'd be allowed to keep the cat. Not in the office - there was, surely, only so much even Aramis' most carefully crafted wide-eyed pleas could do against the combined powers of Athos, Treville and (he would admit) basic common sense.

All the same, he, Porthos and Aramis had fallen for the little ginger kitten so immediately that it would have been a fight over which of them would get to keep it in their flat. From the moment they first considered the idea of asking to have an office cat, however, Aramis had adopted his favourite (albeit decidedly unconvincing) 'wise older brother' guise, insisting that Athos would give in.

This once, at least in the privacy of his own head, d'Artagnan was happy to admit that he was right.

As soon as Treville had left for his office, Athos had started giving orders. Aramis was to make an appointment to take the kitten to a local vet as soon as possible, Porthos was to go shopping for supplies and d'Artagnan's task was to keep "the little demon" out of trouble until he got back.

It would have been a lot easier to take Athos seriously if the kitten hadn't still been curled up and purring on his lap, looking about as un-demonic as anything could.

Porthos hesitated, looking like he was about to say something, before he abruptly grabbed his jacket and wallet and hurried towards the stairs. The next thing d'Artagnan knew, Athos was pressing the warm little bundle into his hands.

"Babysitting duty," Athos reminded him. "If it pees on my desk, you're fired."

"It's a kitten, Athos, I don't think it knows where it's supposed to-"

"Which is why I will be holding you personally responsible."

To d'Artagnan's resounding gratitude, Aramis interrupted by dropping his desk phone onto the receiver and bounding over to them.

"He's all booked in for tomorrow!" he said exuberantly, taking the cat and cradling it against his chest. "Poor little thing, he's got a lot of injections lined up. And they're going to check your gender, you unlucky boy, and I don't think you're going to like it."

"You seem fairly certain on that count already," Athos observed drily.

D'Artagnan knew what was coming instantly, and he almost felt bad for his boss. Almost. Aramis beamed so widely that d'Artagnan wondered if he'd fed Athos the line on purpose. He turned the kitten round and held it out, in full on baby Simba style, towards Athos.

"Do you want to check?"

Judging by the look on Athos' face, Aramis was lucky they were surrounded by witnesses.

"I'm going for tea," Athos ground out. "It's going to take me an hour. If anyone comes after me, I will shoot them in the knee."

Sensing that they were closer to the end of Athos' patience than they had been in some time, the two remaining Musketeers wisely let him leave before they resumed their conversation.

"Poor man," Aramis said with a heavy sigh. "So deep in denial. He'll have named our little friend by the end of the day."

"By the time he gets back, I reckon. Especially if it's going to take him an hour to get tea from one street away."

There was a very familiar look of mischief on Aramis' face. "Twenty euro says I'm right."

"Deal."

The kitten was starting to kick at Aramis' hands with its back legs so d'Artagnan rescued it, carefully depositing it on Athos' chair as it squirmed. It was clearly full of energy and, probably, hunger. They could only help with one of those things until Porthos got back, because he had a sneaking suspicion feeding it the rest of the bag of cat treats was probably a bad idea.

Grinning, he looked over at Aramis. "Do you have any string?"

A number of things about the Musketeers organisation could be called remarkable. They had solved impressive numbers of cases; they'd gone to incredible lengths to save lives and protect people; they were linked by famed bonds of family. All the same, over the course of that afternoon d'Artagnan came to the private conclusion that nothing was more note-worthy than the fact that they could spend a good chunk of the working day dragging string and chains of paperclips around the floor for the amusement of a kitten without a single person coming over to ask what they were doing and why it definitely wasn't any of the things they got paid to do.

It was, he felt, a skill they should experiment with more often, particularly when the paperwork backlog got too high.

Surprisingly - or perhaps not, when he thought about it - Porthos arrived back before there was any sign of a tea-soaked Athos. His arrival was rather more dramatic than might have been expected, because he was carrying at least five huge carrier bags, and was trailed by a very excited Constance armed with a sack of litter and a large box.

Aramis' jaw dropped. "Porthos, what did you _do_?"

D'Artagnan picked their small feline friend up out of the way of the ocean of shopping that Porthos dropped onto the floor, and whistled. "You had fun, then?"

"Don't start with me," Porthos growled. There was a slightly wild look in his eyes. "You've got no idea what that place was like."

"He panicked like a new father buying nappies for the first time," Constance said cheerfully, putting down her own burdens. "He asked for my help as he was leaving but I didn't really believe this! Oh, can I hold him?"

Yep, d'Artagnan thought, watching the expression on Constance's face as she stroked the cat, this had definitely been a good idea. Now they just had to deal with the unexpected fallout.

"Did you buy the entire store?" Aramis was pulling product after product from the bag until he was surrounded by an explosion of feline paraphernalia - including but not limited to several huge bags of kitten friendly food that would last until the cat was about five, an expanding tunnel toy, two soft cushion beds, half a dozen foam balls and several catnip stuffed toys. Then there was the box, which turned out to contain the most extravagant, multi-tiered scratching post/bed creation that had ever existed.

D'Artagnan wasn't sure if it was with sympathy or smugness that he turned to Porthos to say, "Athos is going to kill you."

"We'd better get it into the Garrison before he gets back," Aramis pointed out, as he tried and failed to juggle several toy mice.

Conscious that it might be very easy for Athos to change his mind, d'Artagnan joined him in hastily refilling the bags, before helping them lug everything along to the Garrison. Constance trailed behind, apparently engaged in cooing softly to the cat while also trying to stop it squirming out of her hands.

The room was, luckily, empty. It wasn't particularly surprising - this was, after all, a work day afternoon and people presumably had work to do or something. They quickly pushed the beanbags to one side, freeing up the floor, and set to work.

Constance took care of unpacking and filling the litter tray, then attempting the unenviable task of dragging the kitten's paws through it in the hopes of demonstrating its purpose. To d'Artagnan's delight, Porthos elected to sort out the scratching post, which treated the rest of them to the sight of the brawniest Musketeer in the unit wrestling with rope-wrapped poles and fluffy grey platform beds. D'Artagnan set up a feeding area with a water bowl, followed by a bowl of food which very quickly drew the kitten's attention away from Constance's lesson. Aramis, meanwhile, took to scattering the room with toys and reading the label on a bottle of catnip spray with a worrying level of enthusiasm, punctuated by questions like, "What do you think would happen if I sprayed this on Athos' shoes?"

When it had eaten, the cat sniffed its way around the room, carefully investigating every inch of its new domain. The toys were given passing attention; the scratching post was considered but ignored in favour of the box it had come in; the beanbags were, for the time being, disregarded as a confusing mountain. It took perhaps half an hour before the adventures of the day apparently became too much, and their little friend selected the softest little bed to pad over and, eventually, curl up onto.

"Just look at him," Aramis said softly when the purrs finally gave way to deep breaths. "Our new Musketeer."

"Asleep at work at four in the afternoon. Yeah, just like you," Porthos grinned, ducking the half-hearted retaliatory swipe.

It was at that moment that the door opened. Athos' face was utterly impassive as he took in the fluffy, feathery mess that the Garrison had become, and the Musketeers sprawled with no greater sense of order around the floor. The silence dragged on so long that d'Artagnan began to wonder if there was a decade of unpaid overtime in his future, before Athos finally spoke.

"His name is Jean, and if you're not at your desks _without the cat_ in five minutes you will be retaking every single training session you've ever had."

With that, he was gone. D'Artagnan stood, stretching out the stiffness in his legs, and extended a hand to Aramis - who handed the cash over with surprisingly little complaint. This was so unlike him that d'Artagnan gave his friend a curious look as they followed Porthos and Constance out of the room, closing the door so that they didn't end up with a lost cat roaming the halls.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," Aramis said slowly, "It's just not quite what I'd expected."

"What?"

"Why's he called it Jean?"

"For Jean Valjean, of course," Constance said. "You know how he gets about Victor Hugo novels, he seems to think they're light bedtime reading."

"Yeah," Aramis said, dropping his voice conspiratorially low as their desks and the figure of their boss came into view. "But isn't it the same as, you know..."

He nodded his head in the direction of the office belonging to their illustrious captain, ornamented with a name plate reading _Jean-Armand Treville_.

D'Artagnan followed his gaze. "No way."

"He wouldn't," Porthos said uncertainly.

"He might," Constance said, starting to grin.

They all paused, looking warily between Athos and the office door. After a moment, Aramis clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder. "It might be best that we never speak of this again."

This seemed like the wisest thing he'd ever heard from Aramis, so d'Artagnan nodded. "Shall we just call it Jonny?"

"My dear little brother, I think that's a _really_ good idea."


	7. Safety

_(A/N: Apparently I have wildly inconsistent update times, but here's another one for you! I should at this point add that as well as these stories being extremely light on actual plot, they are also not written with any knowledge of medicine or anything, so there's definitely no detailed or accurate healthcare going on here. That said, please enjoy this (un)healthy dose of hurt/comfort that doesn't really fit with the humour genre this fic originally merited!)_

* * *

It went bad just when he thought it had worked.

The bullets hit like punches that his mind tallied in some detached way. Chest, chest, arm, the third missing its mark when his body was twisted round by the force of the first two shots. Tumbling backwards, or the ground rising up to meet him, head smacking back onto concrete.

 _Breathe. Keep breathing. Don't let the shock take you_.

There was pain. It wiped out everything else - where he was, what had happened, why they were here - everything but the drive to keep breathing through the sensation that his lungs had been torn apart. His vision was mist and sparking lights but it hardly mattered because his brain wasn't trying to interpret it; his head felt like it might split in two. He forgot how to move, how to speak, his own identity or even that he had one beyond the existence of whatever he was that _hurt_ -

And then more gunfire cracked through the air and with a flash of clarity he knew who he was and that his brothers were still in terrible danger.

Something was crackling in his ear; he had an idea that the noise was voices but he couldn't draw words out of it. He should get up, should reach for his weapon and cover the others, but the thought wouldn't translate through to his body. His chest was screaming and the world was a mass of shifting grey shadows - he wouldn't know what to aim at even if he could move. And keeping his eyes open hurt so much, that simple effort causing stinging pain, and it was so much easier to sink back against the ground and shut out the light, rest his head...

Reality crashed in with an explosion of sound, pain, movement. Someone was touching him and d'Artagnan wanted nothing more than for them to go away because every shift sent agony lancing through him; his breath huffed out in a broken groan and the sounds morphed into words that he still wasn't quite processing.

"I know, I know," the voice said, soft and urgent, while hands worked deftly to open up his jacket, feel his head, peer into his eyes. Everything was disjointed; d'Artagnan supposed the voice and hands were connected and that the sum total had a name but he couldn't follow the line of thought to a conclusion that should come as naturally as breathing.

Of course, breathing was still proving problematic.

 _"Aramis!"_

This voice was different, distant and crackling and only sounding in one ear. It spoke with a sharp bite of tension, anger and what might have been concern, all bound up in irritation that suggested the call was being repeated.

"I'm with him, Athos. Two in the vest, one to his upper arm and a pretty bad concussion."

 _"He's alive?"_

"And looking at me like I'm the Easter bunny. He needs a hospital."

There was an urgency and gravity in the voice and in the way the hands probed at him that didn't seem right; this was a voice that was supposed to be bright and teasing, hands that were supposed to be engaged in some kind of mischief not pressing something against his arm that drew a strangled cry from him.

His steady determination to breathe was wavering. It was hurting more and more, a sensation like a huge pressure on his chest, and the hands seemed to realise - next moment, there was a shifting and the bulletproof vest was pulled away, eased off with gentle care.

The relief was so absolute that he felt himself drift immediately. The pain dulled back to a steady ache rather than stabbing pain, and the difference was an unparalleled comfort, if only he could ignore the fire in his arm and head, and suddenly sleeping seemed to be a tremendous idea, the buzzing in his ear a comforting balm...

"Don't you dare!" The hands shook him roughly but it was the change in the voice that jerked him back to consciousness. His companion's businesslike competence dissolved, for the first time, into what d'Artagnan belatedly realised was _fear_.

"Brother, open your eyes! That's it, d'Art, look at me. Keep your eyes on me."

The greyness resolved itself by degrees. It was still too bright, painfully so, but the desperation in the voice was enough to focus him - and he saw the face bent over him, framed by wild, sweaty hair, eyes wide and afraid. It was, however, so overwhelmingly familiar that despite everything d'Artagnan was filled with a sensation of safety. Everything was going to be alright now, because his brother was here.

"Athos, how's it looking?" Aramis said, his eyes never wavering from d'Artagnan. He touched his hand briefly to d'Artagnan's face, cupping his cheek in a touchingly fond gesture that seemed at odds with the gravity of the situation, before returning to work on the arm that was rapidly becoming his greatest source of pain. There was too much pressure, like there had been on his chest, but now it was unrelenting.

 _"I think it was a sniper. We've got all the ones on the ground. I'm going after him. Porthos is on his way to you."_

"For God's sake, Athos, be careful. If I have to call for another ambulance, I'll kill you myself."

 _"Duly noted. Stay under cover. I'll radio as soon as it's safe for the paramedics."_

The voice cut off abruptly. Aramis started muttering to himself and for a disturbing minute d'Artagnan thought he'd lost track of speech again before he realised his brother was speaking Spanish - swearing in it, probably.

The pain in his arm started to recede as he lay there, and dimly d'Artagnan wondered if that was a bad thing. Everything was growing a little fuzzy again; between blinks, another set of hands was on him, shining a deeply unpleasant light into his eyes, tapping his cheeks, and he realised Porthos had appeared by some sort of magic.

Or he was starting to lose consciousness again. This seemed like something Aramis was going to get annoyed about so he tried to speak, to explain it all, but his jaw felt too heavy, his tongue inane and useless. But he could hear that rush of voices again, knew that it was French not Spanish this time and he should understand, should respond because the panic in their voices wasn't even partly concealed any more.

He reached out with his good arm, though moving it felt as difficult as scaling a wall, with the endurance of running a marathon, but this _mattered_. He reached over, half-blindly, until his fingers collided with others, slick with blood, presumably still working on his arm. D'Artagnan latched onto Aramis' wrist, trying to convey everything he couldn't say, could hardly even think.

 _Don't panic. I'm not worried - I'm with you._

 _"Aramis - Porthos?"_

"Finally," came the growl from beside d'Artagnan's head. "Where the hell are you?"

 _"It's taken care of."_

"You got him?"

 _"It's safe. D'Artagnan?"_

"He's here." Aramis sounded hoarse, and d'Artagnan blinked away enough shadows to find his friend's eyes fixed on his.

 _"How is he?"_ In the silence, the voice crackled again, the terse question fired out with as much force as the bullets were. _"Aramis, how is he?"_

The dark eyes didn't waver. "He's going to be fine. He wouldn't dare do anything else."

* * *

D'Artagnan awoke in the absolute certainty that he was safe. For a long while he lay, drifting, not caring where that surety had come from, just utterly comfortable in the knowledge. Sensation came gradually - the feeling of sheets beneath his fingers where he was sure there had been grass before; the soft hum of machinery; a faint smell of cleaning products; the glow of florescent lighting through his eyelids. He knew he was in a hospital before he opened his eyes, but the safe feeling remained.

Hesitantly, expecting an onslaught of pain, he looked around.

The anticipated wave of pain didn't come, and it took a moment to realise why. The answer was in the floaty sensation that passed through his head when his eyes opened, in the way he looked down at his body with the idea that his head might not actually be attached to it. The very fact that this notion didn't bother him was probably a good statement of the quality of the medication he was on.

Everything was remarkably quiet. D'Artagnan was rather well-acquainted with hospitals and had never known one to have a corridor this peaceful. It was, he mused, almost as if someone had suggested in no uncertain terms to everyone in the vicinity that serenity was the safest course of action. Absolutely sure of what he was going to find, d'Artagnan looked over to the side of his bed.

To the onlooker, Athos might look almost like he was prepared to do a day's work but for his closed eyes; the man seemed incapable of slouching unless he'd been drinking. But d'Artagnan could see the slump in his shoulders, the deep shadows under his eyes and the crease between his eyebrows, even in sleep - perhaps partly _because_ he was sleeping practically upright in a hospital chair, which couldn't be good for anyone.

There was a copy of _Les Miserables_ on the table beside his bed, the bookmark most of the way through the novel. D'Artagnan was privately convinced Athos had been reading the book so obviously in his breaks recently to make a point.

Why was he in here? The thought brought no panic for himself, but there was the sight of a weary Athos and the absence of two friends to worry about - though not, as it turned out, for very long. There was a sound from the far corner of the room and he saw Porthos sitting on the floor, head lolling back against the wall, and Aramis getting to his feet beside him.

"It's about time," he said, approaching the bed with a soft, sincere smile. He spoke quietly, feet padding gently across the floor. "If you slept much longer, I was afraid Athos would start following through on the very unkind things he's been threatening the staff with."

D'Artagnan went to speak, but his voice was a dry rasp, and the effort ached deep in his chest. Aramis held a hand to silence him, and put a straw to his lips for a few sips of water.

"Just rest. You've got some pretty spectacular bruising. And you've had surgery on your arm, so _really_ don't try to move it. And there was a major concussion, too, which I assume is because you want me to die of a heart attack before I'm forty."

Flashes of memory filtered into him, without any sense of detail or context - the four of them in the car, in full gear; walking alone through a desolate copse of trees to approach the warehouse from the south - sneaking up on a man whose gun was still at his side, clearly unaware they were coming, managing to knock him out and cuff him before he could raise the alarm - hearing his brothers' confirmations of similar successes and just thinking they'd pulled it off - pain - Aramis' face, utterly reassuring, leaning over him.

The situation now was similar, though the dramatic decline in his level of pain was a welcome change. Aramis, however, looked even more dishevelled than before, just as weary as Athos and Porthos, with the macabre addition of dried blood all over his shirt.

D'Artagnan had never been more grateful for the telepathy they all seemed to share, because Aramis followed his line of sight and answered his wordless question.

"All yours. I'm fine - no one else was hurt. Just you, and quite dramatically."

D'Artagnan looked pointedly over at Athos, then back to Aramis, whose expression took on a dark edge.

"He found the shooter - a sniper up in the building. Athos hasn't told us exactly what happened, but... the shooter surrendered to him. Treville's interrogating him at the moment. He's surprisingly eager to talk."

"Nobody hurts my team." Athos didn't move, didn't even open his eyes, and his voice was level and utterly controlled. D'Artagnan had distinctly suspected he might not really be asleep, but the protective, defensive and possibly slightly scary sentence sounded like both retribution and a promise, and that feeling of safety soared again.

Across the room, there was a sound that could be mistaken for a snore, but d'Artagnan made no assumptions; he looked over to find Porthos meeting his eyes with a careful stare, taking in every detail.

"You feelin' alright?"

D'Artagnan gave a grin that possibly came out a little loopy, because Porthos and Aramis both snorted and he could practically feel Athos rolling his eyes.

"Good," Porthos said, settling back against the wall with exaggerated movements, "'cos you're sorting out the paperwork from this whole thing when you get back. Gonna have to keep you entertained through all that desk duty."

"That's too cruel, Porthos!" Aramis exclaimed, pretending to cover d'Artagnan's ears. "The poor boy's only just woken up and you're already torturing him-"

"It ain't torture, it's true! He's not going to be fit for duty for weeks!"

"Yes, but you aren't supposed to tell him that!"

The bickering continued, a familiar sound like the comfort of an old blanket. While the other two were distracted, Athos leaned over until his face was only inches from d'Artagnan's ear. He spoke so softly that d'Artagnan had to pull all of his wavering brain function together to pay attention, because he didn't dare miss a single word.

"Never do that to me again."

 _Safe._

D'Artagnan smiled, and found the energy to speak past the discomfort in his chest.

"Wouldn't dream of it."


	8. A Simple Job, Part I

_(A/N: You are all awesome. It's great to have you reading and your reviews are really lovely and very motivational! Inspiration also came this week because series 3 has finally started showing here, and that was a brilliant first episode. This story was inspired by the events of that episode, though it doesn't actually follow the same storyline. It will come in two parts, because as you can see from the length, it's started to get away from me a bit. Plot happened, despite my best efforts. The second part will follow as soon as I've written it! I seem to be veering wildly between humour and really-not-funny stories at the moment, and this falls into the second category. Hurt/comfort is good too, right?)_

* * *

Desk duty wasn't what it used to be. Porthos scowled with a fierceness that should, by rights, have been burning a trail in the road ahead of them, and swerved sharply around another vehicle. There wasn't really room for the manoeuvre; two of his wheels mounted the bank, but there wasn't even a whimper of protest from the seat next to him.

Which was good, because Porthos was at the end of his rope - and he'd never had a lot of patience to start with.

"You're breakin' orders," he said, his voice exactly as grim as his expression as he accelerated again.

"And what are you doing?" d'Artagnan retorted, fixing him with the sort of smug look that, Porthos was learning, only younger siblings could really perfect. "I clearly remember Athos telling you to stay behind as well."

"Yeah, but I've got two workin' arms, unlike some people."

"I got out of hospital weeks ago - and besides, it was only a flesh wound."

"You've spent too much time with Aramis lately."

"Actually, it was Athos who lent me _Monty Python_."

"Nice to know he's really working up a list of reckless stupidity, then," Porthos said sourly, slamming his hands against the wheel as he was forced to come to a halt behind a line of stationary traffic.

"Do you think he's wrong? About what's happened?"

Porthos was on the verge of a snappy reply when he caught the edge to d'Artagnan's voice. He wanted to pretend he hadn't heard it because it was an echo of the same feeling that was rooted so deep in Porthos that he couldn't bear to look at it, as though acknowledging it would be to create a future he could not survive. He had to focus on the anger, the frustration, had to be driven by those immediate emotions and ignore what they were covering up. It was how he got by.

And it was never harder than on days like this.

"They're both gonna be fine," he said firmly. "Or I'll kill them myself. Finally!" They left the traffic jam behind them at last, pulling away from the rush hour crowds skirting the edge of the city and heading out into the countryside at a speed rather dangerously above the limit. The roar of the engine helped to fill the space between them, in which Porthos knew d'Artagnan was drinking in his words, pretending to believe them. Pretending had to be enough, sometimes.

Porthos was definitely ready to kill _someone_ , he just wasn't sure who it was yet. Maybe Feron, for sending Aramis out on his own again; maybe Treville, for letting it happen; he was certainly ready to punch Athos for taking off without them.

A simple task, that was how Feron had put it - a simple task that even a Musketeer could complete alone, unless they required babysitters? The jibe had clearly struck home with Aramis, no doubt deliberately engineered as a reminder of the last solo mission Aramis had undertaken, that almost-disaster of a Christmas. The situation certainly reminded Porthos of that day, but the derision in Feron's voice was utterly unfair - Aramis had done a damn better job than anyone else could have managed, and he'd reacted under the greatest pressure to a threat that wouldn't have existed if their bosses had checked the contact was legitimately on their side.

But it went deeper than that, of course it did. Beneath everything, always, there was the shadow of that night so long ago, the night they had found Aramis in Savoy.

Porthos was seriously beginning to consider instigating a new rule where Aramis had to be cuffed to one of them at all times so that he physically couldn't be sent off anywhere alone. Especially when it was advertised as an easy task.

His instincts had told him to follow, but he hadn't. Porthos hated himself for it now. But that was the nature of their lives - they were basically soldiers, sworn to follow the orders they were given, and the three of them had been given their own responsibilities within the city. The order had come from the deputy commander of the Musketeers, and there was no room for protest.

Passing on the details had fallen to Treville. His face was an open book of all the things he thought of Feron's management and wouldn't voice, but he assured Aramis that, from what they knew, it did seem to be a straightforward assignment. A brief stint as a bodyguard, essentially - the teenage son of a politician needed to be escorted to Paris from the monastery he'd been staying in for the summer. Not normal work for a Musketeer, but the politician in question had apparently insisted on the boy being escorted by none lesser than the country's finest, and had enough clout to see it done. That clout did not, however, stop Feron deciding that only a single Musketeer would be needed.

"I can't override him on this," Treville had said, looking as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth, "but the boy doesn't seem to be in any particular danger. From what I'm told, his father is concerned to make sure he comes straight home and doesn't, ah, act out after so long in the seclusion of the monastery. And I'm only a phone call away, understood?"

Aramis had nodded, made some stupid joke that Porthos couldn't even remember, and grabbed his bag. He'd seemed fine with it after the irritation of an encounter with Feron had faded, even cheerful at the prospect of time spent on the open road. Supervising children was something Aramis was more suited for than any of the rest of them, though none of them were exactly parental material, and he was looking forward to visiting the monastery.

D'Artagnan got caught up in Aramis' lecture on monastic architecture, leaving Athos and Porthos to exchange an uneasy glance. That solidarity, for once, hadn't helped. Porthos had wanted it to only be his instincts that were telling him something was wrong, because he might be able to convince himself that was nothing but foolishness. Athos' instincts, however, were not to be questioned, and there had been a leaden weight in Porthos' stomach ever since.

Now, Porthos glanced away from the blessedly empty road to look at his companion. D'Artagnan was staring down at his phone, his shoulders tense and fingers shaking slightly as they tapped on the screen. Porthos bit back a curse. There might be two brothers in some unknown danger ahead, but there was one in trouble beside him and he couldn't ignore that.

"It's gonna be alright," he said, the words no more convincing than last time - but they were better than the silence. D'Artagnan, unfortunately, was not taking it this time.

"You saw Athos' face when he got that call," he said, not looking away from the screen. "I've never seen him like that."

Porthos had, though, because it was the same way Athos had looked when they'd tailed d'Artagnan's ambulance to the hospital - like he was ready to rip the world apart. Like he'd do anything to save him.

It wasn't like Porthos felt any different, but he hated the position he was in now. It was his nature to be the one charging into danger at his brothers' sides - or altogether alone, if he could not be beside them. To be chasing to catch up, to know _two_ of them were in some danger he could not protect them from, was intolerable.

"We getting any closer?"

"Still on his tail, but he's got half an hour on us and he's driving almost as fast as you."

Porthos accepted that as a challenge, and coaxed a little more speed from the car.

"And you can't trace Aramis' phone too?"

He could _feel_ the derisive look d'Artagnan threw at him. It had been a particularly stupid question, he would admit.

"If I could, don't you think we'd be following him?"

"Yeah, alright. Any luck with Athos' phone records?"

"Just getting in now... here. Yes - it was Aramis' phone, like we thought. Twenty second call. Aramis was due back yesterday, hasn't been contactable since the day before, then he phones Athos for twenty seconds and whatever he says makes Athos run out of the office like he's being chased by a monster from hell. Then Aramis' phone gets switched off."

The summary was a list of crap, and it made d'Artagnan's point succinctly: something was very, very wrong. Porthos had known, of course (that was why they were so carelessly flouting every traffic law in existence), but it still crushed some deep hope that this was all a mistake, that Aramis was fine. He took the frustration out on the car as much as he could, smashing the gear stick around mercilessly. He needed to go _faster_.

"Why did Athos just go?" d'Artagnan said in a sudden burst of anger. "We were right _there_ , he could've taken us with him, how could he expect us to stay behind? We're a team, we do these things together!"

Porthos hated that he already knew the answer to that. If Athos was knowingly going into a dangerous situation - which he would admit seemed to be the only possibility - then he wouldn't have wanted d'Artagnan with him this time. Their youngest brother was still on light duties, and hadn't yet been cleared for fieldwork. The wound had ostensibly healed but it still pained d'Artagnan. He tried to hide it, but there was a stiffness to how he used that arm, a hesitation before he picked something up, or when he held his pistol as part of the trials for fitness for duty.

It was their nature to follow each other into danger, but Athos wouldn't have risked d'Artagnan when he was already injured and unable to defend himself, even when another brother was at stake. Perhaps especially then - Athos would think he could not protect them both.

Then why leave Porthos? He had a distinct suspicion that Athos was trusting him to hold d'Artagnan back while he went for Aramis - but if so, it had been a bloody stupid thing to do. Porthos couldn't keep out of this. He was just apparently worse at leaving d'Artagnan behind.

They drove almost silence for a long time then, not even trying to speak over the furious roar of the engine. Fields and hills dragged by, seeming utterly endless to Porthos in his impatience to get to their goal, without even knowing where it was. D'Artagnan spoke up only to give him occasional directions as he tracked Athos' location through his phone, and once to answer a call from Treville - who had finally noticed that one of his teams of agents had vanished from the office.

Or, Porthos mused, he'd finally stopped being able to pretend they weren't gone, to give them enough of a lead to do whatever they needed.

"Porthos," d'Artagnan said abruptly as they sped past another village. "He's stopped."

Adrenaline spiked, clearing all extraneous thoughts from Porthos' head. The world seemed to sharpen in front of him. "Where?"

"Take the next slip road. He's pulled up outside... I think it's a farm."

They'd left the city about two hours ago. Even driving at a more conventional speed, Aramis had been very close to Paris. It didn't even make any sense for him to be out here - this was miles from the main roads that would have taken him there easily.

"There's something Feron didn't tell us," he growled, taking the turning and speeding down the narrow country road. "If this was just about babysitting some kid to keep him out of trouble, Aramis would've done it without a problem."

"Someone's after the kid," d'Artagnan said, clearly on the same train of thought. "You think Feron knew?"

"I think Feron's had it in for us since the day he showed up in Paris." Spotting a gap in the hedge up ahead, Porthos braked sharply and swerved up the dirt track. "This must be - Athos!"

D'Artagnan looked up wildly, unstrapping himself and leaping out of the car before Porthos had even parked. He had already made it to Athos' car by the time Porthos shut off his engine and clambered out to follow.

"He's not here," d'Artagnan reported, already looking away from the abandoned car to scan the property. There wasn't much to be seen. An old farmhouse at the end of the track, clearly abandoned - there was smashed glass in several of the window frames, the paint was peeling and ivy had grown over the doorway. About half a mile away across the fields was a barn. Apart from Athos' car, there were no other signs of recent life. If Aramis was here, he hadn't driven - and if he'd had to leave the car somewhere, that would help account for why he hadn't made it home.

It also meant someone was after him.

D'Artagnan ran back to their car, grabbing equipment. He tossed a bulletproof vest at Porthos and strapped on his own quickly, noticeably easing it over his injured arm. Porthos pulled his on and joined him at the car.

"Are you good for this?"

Looking steely, d'Artagnan nodded and held out his hand. They'd come this far, and there was no turning back now - not when it had become utterly clear that there was trouble ahead. Porthos handed over his second gun, pretending not to see the wince when d'Artagnan fitted his hand around it and raised his arm. He hated himself a little more, but there was something deeply wrong here and he couldn't afford to bench his brother. Not that it would work anyway.

"You check the house, I'll take the barn. Watch your bloody back, or Athos'll have my head."

D'Artagnan's mouth quirked in a tiny smile, and then he darted towards the back of the house.

It was a damn risky decision, letting him tackle the house alone, but Porthos felt sure that time was the one thing they didn't have.

He ran towards the barn, cursing every heavy footfall and breaking twig underfoot. The whole place looked abandoned - the fields lying fallow and overgrown with weeds, the barn suffering from several holes in the roof. He had almost reached the nearest wall when he heard it.

Voices.

Porthos paused, back to the wall as he caught his breath. Slowly and with the greatest care, he eased his gun out of its holster, before creeping around the corner. The voices weren't coming from within, he realised, but from the far side. As he approached, their words became clear.

"- when he tells me where the boy is!"

The next voice stopped Porthos' heart.

"What boy?" It was Aramis, but utterly wrong - his voice was a strangled rasp, pained and faltering.

There was a dull thud and an audible snap. Porthos felt the blood rush from his face. A terrible moment of silence passed in which he couldn't move, couldn't think, and then the world was kick-started again by a terrible, gasping breath. The noise tore through Porthos, tugged on his most base instinct because his brother was in pain and _he had to make it stop_.

But someone else was already there.

"Damn you, STOP!" Athos roared, and Porthos realised belatedly that it was Athos to whom the unknown man had been speaking before. "He can't tell you anything if he dies!"

 _Dies?_ Rationality fled. Maybe it was insane, maybe it was just as reckless as he had accused Athos of being earlier - but that was the nature of who they were. Porthos didn't care if what he was about to do would get him killed, because Aramis was still gasping those terrible, broken attempts to breathe and, really, nothing else mattered.

"I will find Luc, no matter what," continued the man who had no idea he'd just become the focus of Porthos' very angry world, "but this friend of yours has caused me a lot of trouble this week. Perhaps-"

Porthos didn't let him continue. With a great roar he flung himself around the side of the barn, gun raised and pointed steadily ahead.

He processed the scene immediately and with a clarity that would haunt him forever.

There was Athos, unarmed and furious, his face twisted with pain and horror, reaching out helplessly. There was the stranger, tall and dark haired, just starting to look up, fixing cruel eyes and a cold smile on Porthos. There was Athos' gun, held by this unknown man, pointing down at the figure on the ground. And there was Aramis, doubled over on his hands and knees, body trembling as he tried to breathe, blood dripping to the floor.

Porthos was quick, and after all his time training with Aramis he was a damn good shot. But fast as he assessed the situation there was a second, the barest second, of hesitation, because this was the stuff of nightmares.

It turned out that that second saved Athos' life, because it gave him time to notice the second man, who was standing unmoving by the ruined barn wall and pointing a gun at Athos' head.

"Another Musketeer?" the first man said, his smile never faltering. Porthos had never hated someone so much. He wanted to shred this man to pieces, to repay every injury he had dealt out a hundredfold.

"How touching, Aramis. They have come to say goodbye."


	9. A Simple Job, Part II

_(A/N: See, this is why I usually leave plot out of these stories - it gets much more confusing for me! If I've missed something and it doesn't quite make sense, I just ask that you're lenient on the basis that I really just set out to write some hurt/comfort, and I'm not sure why the characters decided they wanted to have plot to go along with it. I will insist against this next time. I know I've not really explained why Feron acted the way he did, but I figure it's related to his relationship with Grimaud, which the Musketeers don't know about. And it's also because I'm not really sure what those guys are up to yet, having only seen one episode!_

 _Thank you thank you thank you to all you amazing reviewers, and I hope you like the second half of this story.)_

* * *

A quick nudge of the handle showed that the back door wasn't locked, and d'Artagnan wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. Come to that, he wasn't really sure what he was expecting to find inside the farmhouse. If Aramis and the teenager he was escorting, Luc, had come this way on foot, it was a likely place for them to hole up in to take a rest. On the other hand, for things to have gone this badly wrong there had to be someone following them - and in that case, the farmhouse was also a very obvious place for their pursuers to search in the otherwise empty countryside.

It was, however, the only explanation that made sense to d'Artagnan. If the task had been as 'simple' as Feron had insisted, Aramis would've been home yesterday. There was something more going on here, something to do with Luc, and he was willing to bet every euro he owned that Feron had known about it.

The door, though unlocked, didn't open easily. D'Artagnan had to throw all his weight against the wood to shift it further than the first inch, and it moved with a horrific screeching. He swore to himself, his advantage totally lost. If he'd known his approach was going to lack subtlety that much he would just have gone in through the front.

That was probably similarly booby-trapped, though. As he edged into the kitchen, he found that the blockage had been an ancient fridge, repurposed into a makeshift barricade - quite recently, judging by the scrapes and displaced dirt on the floor. Even as he raised his gun in precaution, d'Artagnan's heart leapt. Blocking the door wasn't the action of a hunter, but of a protector.

The building was dark, despite the bright light outside. D'Artagnan pulled out his torch and raised it with the gun, scanning the room. The windows were blocked by heavy curtains and the ceiling was strewn with cobwebs, and there was a thick layer of dust on everything. The cupboards had been opened and old food packets strewn around, but nothing else had been disturbed. If Aramis was here, his pursuers didn't seem to have caught up yet.

All the same, he kept his gun raised as he went further into the house - and not without good reason. The front _had_ been blocked off, with a faded old armchair, but it had been shoved ruthlessly aside. He couldn't spare a moment to be annoyed that it would actually have been more subtle to come in through the front, and instead carried on checking the rooms, now more cautious than ever. Someone had hidden in here, and blocked themselves in, and someone else had come searching.

The ground floor rooms revealed nothing but empty rooms and a few disgruntled mice, so he turned to the stairs. They creaked loudly, which he'd become resigned to, and he paused at the top as he considered the closed doors around the landing.

And that was when he heard it.

The noise was almost inaudible, such that even one more step over the old floorboards would have concealed it, but it sounded like a gasp - or a sob.

Quick and careful, he checked through the upstairs rooms. They were all empty, of both furniture and people; he checked even the cupboards and found nothing. Everywhere he went, he was clearly following in someone else's footsteps; doors were already flung wide and the floors were scuffed.

Had they already left, willingly or otherwise?

But he'd been sure he'd heard something...

"Hello?" he called out, scanning the torch around the landing. "Aramis, are you here?"

Silence. A suspicion began to grow in d'Artagnan's mind, and he softened his voice.

"My name is d'Artagnan. I'm a friend of Aramis' - I'm a Musketeer, like him. My friend Porthos and I have come to help you get home, Luc."

There was quiet for a moment, then very hushed whispering before, quite unexpectedly, a hatch opened in the ceiling. A head appeared, staring wide-eyed down at d'Artagnan from the loft.

"You're _the_ d'Artagnan?"

Despite himself, d'Artagnan grinned, flushed with relief that he'd found Luc safe and unharmed. Why was he not surprised Aramis had managed to fill the boy's head with stories already?"

"I expect so. It's good to meet you, Luc."

"It's not just me," Luc said as he lowered the ladder down. Before d'Artagnan could really process what he'd said, Luc started helping someone else down the ladder - a small, blonde haired someone clutching a little doll. "This is Marie, my little sister."

D'Artagnan helped the girl down on autopilot, pulling himself together in time to give her a smile as she reached the ground. His mind was racing.

"There were two of you? At the monastery?"

"Well, yeah," Luc said, shimmying quickly down the ladder and taking Marie's outstretched hand. "Aramis was surprised too. I figured he'd have known."

"We weren't told," d'Artagnan said, a little darkly, though he forced himself not to scowl because it wasn't the kids he was angry with. There was no way their father hadn't known, so it was evidently with Feron that the _detail_ had got lost. "Aramis didn't pass on the message when he found out, though."

Luc shrugged. "He said he could drive the two of us back as easily as one. That was before Grimaud's guys caught up with us, of course."

"Grimaud?" Sharply reminded of what he was really doing, d'Artagnan quickly went to the landing window. It looked out over the driveway, once he'd rubbed at a patch of it with his sleeve. There was no sign of anything happening out there, but there was also no sign of Porthos returning from the barn.

An icy weight settled in d'Artagnan's stomach. Aramis had to be here somewhere. Athos was still unaccounted for. And now he'd lost Porthos too.

He turned back around, regarding Luc with sudden urgency. "Who is Grimaud?"

Luc stared for a beat, then apparently realised that d'Artagnan really didn't know this essential fact. "He's the reason Aramis was picking us up. I was on a walk out from the monastery, with Marie, and we went a little further than we were meant to, really. We left the grounds. And I saw him - I saw him shoot three men in the woods. He just shot them, and... his friend saw me. I grabbed Marie and we ran back, and the monks called the police, but Grimaud was gone. I phoned Dad and he said he'd get Musketeers to bring us home. The police said I'd need to testify against Grimaud in court." He drew himself up proudly. "I want to. It's the right thing to do."

D'Artagnan was going to _kill_ Feron. He'd had crucial information and actively chosen not to pass it on - information that would have meant they'd never send one Musketeer alone on something like this. Sending one person on this kind of protection detail, especially when the criminal they were trying to avoid was clearly so dangerous, recklessly endangered both the Musketeer and the witnesses. Was his regard for their lives really so low? No doubt he could pin the blame on the Musketeers if it went wrong, claim he'd never said one should go alone, and he'd get the praise if they succeeded despite it all.

Fury boiled up in him, but it was no better than the cold dread of before. He had to clear his mind and stay focused. He had a job to do, and his brothers needed him.

"Luc, you've been brilliantly brave so far," he said, and Luc beamed. "I just need a bit more help. How many of them were following you?"

"Four. His friend, I heard one of them call him Voisard, and three others."

"Not Grimaud?"

"No. I think he was going off to meet someone else."

Those weren't bad odds, but Grimaud's absence made him feel uneasy, and he had to assume something had already gone wrong.

"What happened? Where is Aramis?"

"They planted a signal jammer and a tracker in the car before we left the monastery. Aramis was trying to phone you guys on the road but we could never get through, he just didn't realise why. He realised they were tailing us on the main roads, so we went through a town and onto the back roads and figured we'd lost them - but when they showed up again, that was when he figured they'd put something on the car. They started shooting... Aramis managed to shake them again, he did some _mad_ driving," Luc added, his face lighting up. "We had to leave the car last night."

"We walked _ages_ ," Marie put in, and d'Artagnan noticed for the first time that she did look very tired, cuddling the doll and swaying slightly. He rested his hand on her shoulder.

"But you still couldn't get a signal?"

"Yeah, 'cos it's the back of beyond out here. He got us in here, told me to block the doors and then hide, so that Marie could get some sleep. We were all getting tired but he said he was going to try and find somewhere with a signal."

"It worked," d'Artagnan said grimly. "He called my friend a little while ago. But you haven't seen him since?"

Luc shook his head, and it was clear from his expression that he knew how bad that was. "He told us to wait here unless we heard the men coming. I wanted to go after him, but..."

"You did the right thing," he said firmly. "You needed to look after your sister."

"Yeah. That's what Aramis said. But someone came in, maybe half an hour after Aramis left. He was yelling, searching around for us, but it wasn't Aramis. And he didn't notice the loft, I guess."

"Good. Luc, how old are you? Can you drive?"

"I passed at the beginning of the summer!"

"Right. Come with me, you two."

His nerves were so sharp that every creak of the house went straight through d'Artagnan. As he led them back outside he looked around constantly, expecting an ambush at any moment, but there was still no sign of anyone else on the farm. The distant tree line loomed ominously, potentially concealing anything, and the barn was a constant premonition of trouble.

The handbook, if anyone was ever mad enough to write one for this kind of situation, would definitely say he should get in the car and drive the kids to Paris, not stopping until they were safely in the Musketeer base. He knew it was the right move, and he wanted to keep these kids safe. His brothers were the best at what they did, all strong and perfectly capable of looking after themselves.

And yet it was for that very reason that d'Artagnan was so worried. There was no way Aramis would have voluntarily left Luc and Marie alone; he must have been caught by Voisard and the others. Then what? Athos would have shown up, found Aramis, and been somehow unable to help... the same for Porthos. The only reason they wouldn't have come back for the children was that they were in trouble, probably hurt, and not for all the knowledge of right and wrong in the world could d'Artagnan just leave them here.

But neither would he abandon his charges.

He fished his keys out from a pocket, and slipped one off the ring, making a mental note to thank Athos for giving him the spare. He unlocked his friend's car, tapped a few buttons on the sat nav and handed the key over to Luc.

"I want both of you to get in. The sat nav's inside, I've programmed it straight to the Musketeer base. Give me your phone." He quickly thumbed in a number he knew easily by heart. "Right. If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, I want you to drive straight for Paris. Follow the directions, and don't stop. As soon as you get signal, call that number. It's my boss, Captain Treville, he's a good man. Tell him what's happened. He'll look after you. Oh, and if you see _anyone_ other than me or Aramis, you drive, even if it's not been fifteen minutes. Got it?"

Luc nodded. He looked suddenly pale, less excited than before, as if realising how much his own and Marie's safety now rested on him. D'Artagnan's insides clenched with guilt. Could he do this? Could he leave them alone? They needed him.

It was Luc who ended the agony of indecision for him. He gently pushed d'Artagnan away from the car, picking Marie up and sliding her through into the passenger seat, and taking up the driver's seat himself.

"Aramis has done so much to look after us. You have to help him, or I will."

D'Artagnan nodded firmly. "I'll find him."

* * *

There was no torture like having to watch this.

Two more men had appeared from inside the barn, one relieving Porthos of his gun. He had no choice about it, not with weapons aimed at both of his brothers. Even if he shot one man, the other would shoot to kill - he would buy one brother's life with another, and that wasn't an option. The man who took his gun was huge, big enough even to wrench Porthos' arms behind him and hold them there.

The one standing over Aramis introduced himself, with grandiose style, as Voisard. The name meant nothing to Porthos, except in identifying the man he intended to kill as soon and painfully as possible. It also wasn't a good sign, because criminals didn't tend to give their names to law enforcers that they expected to survive the day.

Aramis, in the lull, had managed to push himself upright a little. He looked terrible. His face was bruised, his noise swollen and still dripping blood. He was holding his right arm awkwardly and it was clearly paining him, but worst was the way he was hunched forward, still gasping in shallow, grating breaths. At least one cracked or broken rib, Porthos figured. Not an emergency unless it pierced an organ, but bloody painful.

And that was about as far as he could get with the rationality, because what all this meant was that Aramis had been out here alone, probably ever since he'd made that too-short phone call, and these men had been hitting him. Kicking him. And Porthos hadn't been here, hadn't had his back.

Now that he _was_ here, there still wasn't a damn thing he could do, and he wasn't sure which was worse.

"I'm growing tired of this," Voisard said. "My associates didn't find the boy on the farm, which means you hid him somewhere or sent him on. Where is he?"

Even though he could hardly breathe, Aramis opened his mouth with an expression Porthos was very familiar with, and Porthos cut in before his friend could talk himself into more trouble.

"Whatever you're looking for clearly isn't here. Just get out, an' we won't follow. Not today."

Considering that he wanted to rip Voisard's throat out, it was a reasonable offer. The other man just looked at him coldly.

Athos stepped forward, clearly far less afraid of the gun being pointed at him than Porthos was.

"He is right. You have already found that this place is deserted. Aramis doesn't know where the boy is. That's what we're trained to do - not to know the answers to questions we might be tortured for." His voice was precise and utterly emotionless, but each word was thrown like a knife. It was when this happened that Athos was most dangerous, but their opponent didn't seem fazed.

On the contrary, he was looking between the three of them with a calculating expression that Porthos hated, especially from someone who was still aiming the barrel of a gun at Aramis' torso.

"You have very loyal companions, Aramis. I wonder, to whom are _you_ most loyal? To a boy you barely know, or your brothers in arms?"

They had no warning beyond Voisard's sharp nod. The two men by the barn surged into action. Athos raised his arms in time to block the first blow but he was either slow or unwilling to attack with Aramis still defenceless. After a moment, it was too late anyway; one man had seized him by the arms and the other laid into him, landing several fierce punches against his stomach, torso and face.

Porthos roared, straining to break free, but Voisard delivered another kick to Aramis' exposed chest that knocked him to his side, gasping; the point was clear, but how was Porthos just supposed to stand here and watch this? Athos was stoic as ever, and still fierce; he managed to duck one punch, letting it land on the man behind him. Porthos felt a flash of hope but the thug just growled and held on tighter, and the next blow came from the butt of the pistol.

Clearly dazed, Athos struggled to keep his footing, mostly supported by his captor. He didn't give them the satisfaction of crying out but his whole body was tensed, trying to curl forward to protect himself against the blows, but unable to do so. His breaths were heavy; blood began to trickle down from where the pistol had connected at his temple.

"Let - them - go," Aramis ground out. He was trying to push himself up again, the damn fool; Porthos found himself praying to the God Aramis was so devoted to that his friend would learn when it was best to stay down.

He would rather take every blow on himself than watch them suffer. It was impossible to stay cool even though he knew he needed to; every instinct screamed for him to be at their sides.

But he was unarmed, and they had guns. He needed a distraction.

"When you tell me where he is!" Voisard snapped, clearly at the end of his patience. That meant nothing good for any of them - if Voisard still believed Aramis was holding out, he might start shooting next. The only question was whether he would shoot him or Athos as leverage, or give up on Aramis altogether.

Aramis hunched forward, shaking his head as though unable to talk. Porthos sincerely hoped he was faking, but it was a dangerous game. Voisard looked more dangerous than ever as he gestured to the man holding Porthos. "Check the house again."

 _D'Artagnan_. There was no way to warn him, and Porthos could only watch as the man left towards the farmhouse. He was free, but his friends were too close to danger for him yet to make a move.

And yet, for them now, it was one man and one gun less in the equation. He just needed the right moment.

Athos was blinking hard, still slightly out of it and slack in his captor's grip, but he met Porthos' eyes with a small nod. The meaning was clear - he wasn't good, but he was _good enough_ to fight. Porthos forced himself to breathe slowly, waiting, though he didn't yet know for what.

As was always the way, when the moment came, it came fast.

Voisard bent forwards, pressing his gun into Aramis' sternum. "You will not speak to save your own life - but I think, if I shoot one of them, you will speak to save the other. What do you think?"

Aramis spat blood in his face. Voisard snarled, span round on his heel, raised his gun towards Porthos.

Around the corner of the barn, d'Artagnan caught Porthos' eye.

He threw himself to the side as Voisard fired, the bullet vanishing into the trees. Athos headbutted the man holding him, flinging them both backwards, hitting the ground hard. D'Artagnan, his hands perfectly steady, fired a shot, and the one who'd been hitting Athos dropped like a stone. That was all Porthos saw before he was flying at Voisard, knocking the gun from his hand, and punching.

The world was red until a hand landed on his shoulder, a voice calling his name. Porthos stilled, because he knew that voice, knew that it was over now.

D'Artagnan crouched down beside him, checking for a pulse beneath the blood. "He's unconscious. He'll go to jail, Porthos, it's better that way. It's how we make him pay."

Porthos nodded shakily, unable to speak, and stood. His hands hurt, but it was the most satisfying pain he'd ever felt. That bastard wouldn't harm his friends again.

Athos was already done with his opponent, the man prone and unconscious or dead on the ground. He was still shaky on his feet but staggered across the distance to drop down beside Aramis.

 _Aramis_.

He wasn't aware of moving, but he found himself beside Athos, who was trying to stop a resisting Aramis from getting up.

"Luc," he was saying, grinding the words out though they were clearly painful. "Marie - are they-"

"They're fine, Aramis, I found them," d'Artagnan said reassuringly. "Had to knock out a man in the field as I came over here, though. You lot are slipping."

The words would be a welcome jest at any other time, but Porthos' heart was pounding. "Are you alright?" he said gruffly. It was a stupid question but he had to say _something_ , had to know, had to help.

Aramis understood, as he always did, and he managed to give a smile. It would have been more comforting if his teeth weren't stained with blood. "'m okay."

Athos scowled. "If you're so sure, perhaps you'd be able to tell us your _minor_ injuries?"

Appealing to the medic in Aramis was always a good idea. Whether it was showing off or merely instinct, he couldn't help answering - and it snapped him back into an 'on the job' mentality, too, because hiding injuries would only put his companions at risk, and that was something he wouldn't allow.

"Broken rib, and something badly bruised around there," he said, his voice a little stronger. "Arm's dislocated, I think. It's my shooting arm too," he added ruefully. "And I think he made my face less pretty."

"I'm sure you'll manage," d'Artagnan said, patting Aramis consolingly on the shoulder. "I'll bring your car around, Athos, so Aramis doesn't have to walk. If Luc hasn't already driven off with it."

 _"Why is he in my car?"_

D'Artagnan was already off, beating a hasty retreat back towards the house, and Athos sighed. He returned his attention to Aramis, now supporting him with his shoulder so that he could stay sitting up.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked, and Athos scoffed.

"You've been beaten half to death, your voice sounds like you've gargled glass and you're worried about us?"

"You got beaten up too, Athos, even if you don't want to admit it. And I'm not sure Porthos has even noticed he got hit, yet."

What? It was only now Aramis mentioned it that Porthos began to feel his face and torso throbbing slightly; Voisard must have got some hits in, and he hadn't been aware of it. The pain made itself known as the adrenaline ebbed, but it didn't matter. It would all heal.

"I'll be fine," he said, "as long as you never do anything like that to me again."

"Seconded," Athos said dryly. "If you ever call me with an emergency, don't turn your damn phone off-"

"I didn't!" Aramis yelped defensively. "They snuck up on me and broke it!"

"And you don't get to be pissed," Porthos said to Athos, his earlier anger suddenly resurging. "You do not leave me behind, ever, got it?"

Athos deflated slightly. His expression had totally lost its stern facade; he looked, now, exactly how Porthos felt - weary, grateful beyond belief, and terribly afraid.

"I know. I just - d'Artagnan - if I knew you two were safe..."

"I understand, Athos, but you've gotta know that I can't stay behind while you're in trouble. Aramis needed backup, but so did you. That's what we do. We protect each other. It doesn't just go one way."

"All for one," Aramis muttered, sagging back against Athos. The extraordinary strength that had carried him through it all seemed to have deserted him at last, now that his brothers were with him.

When he had reassured himself that Aramis was breathing well - so much more steadily than those terrible breaths of before, whose sound was seared into his brain forever - Porthos clambered to his feet and cuffed their surviving, incapacitated opponents. By the time he was finished, d'Artagnan had pulled up in the car. Porthos could just make out two heads - wait, _two?_ Who the hell had Aramis meant when he said Marie? - in the backseat, but d'Artagnan firmly told them to stay inside as he got out. They didn't need to see the battlefield.

"I think we passed a hospital in the last town," he said as he came over. "Though at the speed Porthos was driving, it's a little hard to be sure."

Aramis was shaking his head before d'Artagnan even got the sentence out. "Paris. It can wait 'til Paris."

Porthos wanted to argue, but at the end of the day, he trusted Aramis to know his own limits. And besides, he'd had enough of this whole damn place. He wanted to be back in Paris, and he never wanted to leave his city again.

He shared a look with Athos, who nodded, and they started the painful process of helping Aramis to his feet. When he looked up again, to his surprise, d'Artagnan was smiling.

"What's up with you?"

"You do realise," d'Artagnan said, "I'm going to be the only one of us _not_ on desk duty next week?"

"Like hell," Athos ground out, and d'Artagnan stared at him in surprise - whether for the word choice or the sentiment, Porthos wasn't sure.

"What?"

"I'm fixing the paperwork. None of us is _ever_ going on a mission alone again."

"Sounds good to me," Aramis said with soft sincerity. His good arm was wrapped tightly around Athos' shoulder, and Porthos held him up around the waist on the other side. "I'm really missing my desk right now."

"I'll remind you that you said that in a few days," Porthos said, grinning. Humour came easily now on the back of this overwhelming relief, because all his brothers were here with him again. Maybe not hale, but whole, and time could fix the rest.

"And I'll remind Athos when me and Jean find new ways to prank him," Aramis said. His voice was still breathless, but his inherent spark remained.

With a show of genuine, open emotion Porthos had seen from him only a handful of times, Athos grabbed Aramis' hand and pressed a kiss into his sweaty curls. He didn't speak, or couldn't, but the meaning was clear: as long as Aramis was alive to do it, Athos would take every last prank and trick and cat-related 'surprise' his brother could dream up. Porthos understood entirely.

It was time to go home.


	10. The Captain

_(A/N: Seriously, how do these things happen? I have no idea how this ended up being so long. Plot again, sorry. I found myself wanting to explore Athos' character a bit more, so I gave him the focus and some action. If this makes no sense, it's probably because I thought it up while I was extremely tired and wrote it in the same state. Sorry?_

 _As an aside - how good was that series 3 finale?! If the show had to end, I'm so glad it went out that way. It was the ending the show deserved. There's not really much to add, but I might have some series 3 related stories cropping up soon._

 _And I'd like to take a moment to say that the feedback I've got for these random, weird stories has been truly lovely. Whatever kind of day I'm having, reading your reviews makes me genuinely happy, and I deeply appreciate you taking the time to leave them. And as ever, absolutely all of you are amazing for reading this, and I hope you enjoy it.)_

* * *

Athos figured, later, that he should have seen it coming. He'd assumed they were safe in the Musketeer base, assumed he could relax, and that was a mistake. Never assume anything - that was the way to survive.

It was the end of what had been, for them, a relatively normal week - if he allowed for the recent change in the definition of normal. Treville had been promoted a month after the fight at the farm, which had come as something of a surprise. The four of them had assumed they'd brought the regiment into notoriety, though the lack of reprisals afterwards suggested Treville had carried out a rather impressive PR campaign when he reported back to Louis. There hadn't been any praise, either - none of the accolades Aramis deserved for what he'd been through, for getting those kids back to their unpleasantly disinterested father despite everything - but it was only to be expected. Considering that official recognition, if pressed for, might get them all fired given Feron's involvement, he was content to settle for this one passing into the ether. It didn't stop him from showing his concern and pride in Aramis in other ways, though, which he wasn't sure if his brother was even aware of.

Whatever his motivation, Louis had clearly decided that he needed Treville advising him more closely, and Athos could only be proud of and pleased for their leader. The man had brought Athos into the Musketeers during the worst time of his life, made him the man he was and found him the best friends he'd ever had - there was nothing he could begrudge Treville. Even if, in this case, it meant that someone else had to be promoted too.

Athos had never harboured any desire to be captain. He'd never wanted the title, the prestige, any of it. His place was with his team, on the ground protecting people and defending his country, not ensconced in an office where lives became ink on paper. But Treville had given him the responsibility, and he could not help but accept it with pride. If that was the new form his duty took, he would carry it out.

And the job hadn't turned out to be quite what he'd expected, anyway. There had, for one thing, been decidedly less paperwork than he'd expected, which had confused him for several days until he learned that Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan were still directing all but the most important paperwork to Treville. Matters like equipment purchase and repair, leave requests (all too rare), overtime forms (all too common) and other such mundane necessities were neatly skipping over Athos' head.

He approached Treville about it once, concerned that he was unintentionally shirking his duties, but Treville had simply handed him a mission briefing and asked for an extensive report after he'd decided how to respond. Athos now had full jurisdiction to make decisions for his team, and authority over the Musketeers as a whole, but he was still free to join his brothers in the field and be on the front line. Treville couldn't have given him anything better.

Athos spent most of his time in the open office with the others, working and planning and operating the hub that kept the Musketeers ticking over, but he couldn't deny that having Treville's old office came in handy sometimes. Despite Treville's help he did still have more paperwork than he used to, of an even more sensitive nature, and there was a limit to how much of Aramis and Jonny's double act he could take in a day. The office became his retreat, and that was why he wasn't with them when it happened.

It was a Sunday, and they were all meant to be at home. They weren't even on call that weekend, but a tip had been phoned in on a case they'd been working for months, and it couldn't wait till Monday - a previously unheard of witness was prepared to come in to give evidence they'd been too afraid to share until now. The Musketeer who called Athos with the news seemed to find this reasonable, but Athos' more honed instincts rebelled. There was something off about it - this, at least, he was to be proved right on.

His first mistake was phoning Porthos. He'd wanted a second opinion and he trusted Porthos' judgement - his strategic instincts were second to none. Athos often thought Porthos would have made a good general in another life.

Shouting over the sound of his football team's warm up - how had Athos forgotten he was playing against his old 'honestly we were never in a gang' buddies from his youth? - Porthos had grimly agreed that something weird was going on. They needed to find out what, of course, because it sounded like it could be some kind of ploy from their main suspect, a plant to find out what the Musketeers knew maybe. Yes, Athos needed to go into the office, but he wasn't going alone.

He made a protest, but it was no more than a token - Porthos' mind was made up, and deep down Athos knew the outcome before he made the call. By the time he'd driven into work, Porthos was already there (still in his football shirt, shorts and trainers), and Aramis and Porthos were there too. Aramis was dressed in what would have been smart clothes on anyone else but always hung in a defiantly jaunty way on his body - he'd been going to church, no doubt. D'Artagnan showed up with Constance, and Athos remembered they'd been planning a trip to the zoo today. Not a word of complaint, though - they all got to work. After joining the discussion for a while Athos gave orders for them to do what they could to trace the tip call and pull up the latest surveillance on the case, before retreating to the office to think.

It was only, perhaps, half an hour later when everything went to hell.

The first he knew about it was when, having had no luck gathering his thoughts, he tried to phone Treville. His desk phone gave him nothing but a flat dial tone, and his mobile reported no signal. No data connection either - and no WiFi on his computer. The security feeds he could normally access, showing the entrances to the buildings, the lifts and stairwells, were nothing but grainy squares of interference.

Athos lowered the phone slowly, looking up at the closed door of his office. Slowly, and with every outward appearance of calm, he pressed the panic button under his desk.

Nothing happened, but then nothing was supposed to obviously happen. Still, if everything else was down, he had to assume the emergency system wasn't working, that backup hadn't been alerted.

It could be a malfunction. It could be perfectly innocuous. If Athos was another man who lived in another world, he'd just have gone down to IT.

But this was his world, and he pulled open his drawer to remove his gun.

He slipped the holster onto his belt. His knife was still on his waist - he'd put it on without thinking that morning and not thought to remove it. He knelt down and removed another gun from a hidden compartment under the desk. Inheriting Treville's secrets certainly had its advantages, and every instinct was screaming at Athos that something was wrong.

Apart from anything else, he'd only just realised that it was much too quiet.

Treading softly, knowing exactly which patches of floor to step over to avoid creaking, Athos made his way to the door. It was his name on the outside, now. This was his base - these were his Musketeers. God help anyone who tried to give them trouble.

When he eased the door open, nothing looked immediately amiss. The balcony on which his office stood looked out over a quiet, peaceful office area, computers softly humming away. That, of course, was half the problem, because the office was _never_ quiet when his team was in.

Senses straining for any sign of trouble, gun raised in steady hands, Athos hurried down the stairs and almost ran into Constance.

"Athos!" she whispered, startled but not surprised to see him, and it was clear she'd come to the same conclusions as him. She was holding her own gun and fixed him with a sharp, urgent look. "Someone's in the building."

"You've seen them?"

"Only briefly. I was watching the security feeds - the witness didn't give us any way to contact them, I figured maybe they were planning to come here."

"Good thinking."

"But there was this group - maybe five or so - I just saw them for a moment before the feeds cut out. I think they were armed."

"Where are the others?" Athos asked urgently. The sudden pounding of blood was a burst of adrenaline but it echoed in his ears, quickening.

Constance looked pale. "I don't know. They wanted a break, they were going to get coffee, I kept watching the feeds but I never saw them leave-"

"We have to work on the basis that they're still in the building," Athos said, his voice staying steady of its own accord. He would plan for the worst - and the worst, in this case, was his brothers facing armed men when they weren't expecting it, when they were off guard and possibly even unarmed.

Constance followed his gaze to the desks, and seemed to guess his thoughts. "They took their guns. They're Musketeers, they're surgically attached to their weapons. But listen, Athos, there's something else. I think I recognised one of the men before the cameras went out."

He turned back to her, raising an eyebrow.

"I think it was Marcheaux."

The name had become all too familiar to Athos of late. Marcheaux was a thug, closely associated with a particularly violent local gang, often brought in on charges of burglary and assault, but somehow they never stuck. He was either good at clearing up evidence or he had powerful friends, and Athos knew which one he was betting on. He'd certainly been upping his game lately - there was more and more activity they suspected his involvement in, climbing slowly up to GBH, fraud, even circumstantial evidence in a murder investigation.

This certainly shed new light on things.

"If Marcheaux is involved, this is probably nothing to do with that case. The witness was a hoax. We've been tricked; he wanted us here."

"That's a step up from his usual style, isn't it?"

"Perhaps," Athos agreed, "but not if he's working for someone else."

Determination settled into Constance's face. For all the danger, Athos was glad to have her here - there were few people who could keep their head in a crisis like Constance. She gave him a resolute nod.

"Orders?"

"There are still people working in the building. Tech staff, cleaning staff - they need to be evacuated. You move quickly and quietly, find them and protect them, get them out if you can."

"And you?"

"I'm going to find Marcheaux, and my men."

To her credit, Constance didn't protest. She wanted to find d'Artagnan, of course she did, and Athos loved her for it - but they had other colleagues in the building who were unarmed and unprepared for this, and Constance would not leave them.

They parted without further words, Constance to check the other rooms on the floor, and Athos for the stairs. He was halfway down to the next floor when a voice echoed up towards him. Someone was speaking into a loudspeaker, he figured, but the words were still muffled where he stood.

"Athos! Captain Athos, won't you come and join me? Some of your friends are already here for the party."

Perhaps he should have paused, caught his breath and decided his next move, but his body moved without waiting for his mind's opinion. Only ingrained training kept his footfalls soft as he raced down the stairs, while the taunting voice grew closer as it called for him.

Well, _this_ he definitely should have seen coming, Athos thought sourly, as he paused on the ground floor and realised the voice was coming from the basement. The level with the armoury. Excellent.

He hesitated at last, looking towards the door into the lobby. This was his chance to go for reinforcements, to physically make the call technology had not been able to offer, but could he risk leaving his brothers?

The decision was taken out of his hands quite abruptly. Two men appeared in the doorway, guns levelled at Athos. He swung his own towards them, but one simply shook his head, unafraid.

"Put your weapons on the floor, or your men die."

He wanted to think Marcheaux didn't have his brothers, but he couldn't assume - not again. Slowly, he crouched down, placing both guns on the floor, and gingerly withdrew his knife to join it. As he stood up he was roughly shoved backwards, and his weapons were retrieved. Their guns did not waver.

"Move. Down."

He was encouraged, none too gently, down the stairs, and emerged into the dark lower level. It was bad enough that Marcheaux's men must have overpowered the guards on the doors and overcome the security there; the armoury level was meant to be the best protected, but the doors were wide open. Even with his spate of increased activity of late, Marcheaux had never had access to this kind of technology before.

The man himself was lounging against a desk covered with more weapons and gadgetry than a man like him should even be allowed to picture. Dozens of standard issue guns next to a whole host of other pieces of equipment. Some of it looked like Marcheaux's own, including several sleek black devices that, if he was any judge, had to include a signal jammer.

There was no sign of Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan. All of the doors leading out of this space were conspicuously shut. The entire area was on a lockdown system which no intruder should have been able to get past - they certainly shouldn't have been able to empty the safe rooms _before_ they locked.

Unless, of course, the intruder had had inside help.

Athos knew who he wanted to kill, but it was Marcheaux who was in front of him. Feron would have to wait. (Why would have to wait to - why Feron was so determined to topple an organisation he nominally helped to run, why he wanted the city to be without its protectors.)

"Captain!" The man did not rise, but fixed Athos with a look of deep disdain, finally setting aside the loudspeaker. "Finally. I'd begun to think you weren't going to come."

"You could have taken the weapons and got out of here by now," Athos said, dispensing with formalities. "Why are you still here?"

"Do you _want_ me to kill your men? I can assure you, it would be my pleasure."

"I'd prefer to know why I'm going to kill you."

One of the men behind Athos snorted, and Athos took note of his position without looking round. He was by the door still - the other felt closer behind him - two more loitering around the other, empty desks. It made the five Constance had suspected. They hadn't left anyone on watch - foolish, very foolish. Constance, upstairs, was free to move around.

Marcheaux sighed deeply, as though Athos was proving to be an inconvenience. "Very well. I've come to give you a message from a friend of mine, I believe you know his name. Grimaud would like you to back off."

The murderer who'd gone after Luc. The name had cropped up since, but only as a whisper. Athos hadn't been aware they'd got anywhere near the man, though he considered it a personal victory that they seemed to have interfered with his activities. How many of their recent cases had the man been involved in?

"Message duly received," Athos said, still speaking quite evenly. There was no space in his mind for fear - not for himself, anyway. His thoughts were racing too fast, he was too aware of the room and too busy scanning through his options to bother being afraid. "Let my Musketeers go."

"Oh, but you see, that wasn't the whole message. Don't you want the rest?"

Terrible scenarios flashed through Athos' mind. His brothers' bodies, already dead, throats slashed or foreheads split by bullets - he wouldn't allow it, even if he had to turn back time.

But Marcheaux wasn't pulling bodies out from somewhere - he was stalking towards Athos like a lion towards an antelope.

Like Athos would ever be anyone's prey.

He sensed the coming of the first blow before Marcheaux lifted his arm. The man was strong, but he was clumsy and he wasn't as fast as Athos - all this he sensed in that first exchange, as he dodged the blow and caught Marcheaux's jaw with his own fist as he passed. Marcheaux roared and charged, catching Athos around the waist and bearing him backwards to slam against one of the closed doors. Athos ignored the pain and used the momentum to pull the other man so that his forehead slammed into solid metal, kneed him in the groin and threw him aside.

In a fair fight, he would have won. But these were not exactly men of honour, and Athos had made his next mistake, albeit out of necessity: he had taken his attention away from the other four men.

It was a lightning bolt of pain, cold in one instant and then white, burning hot. It struck through to his core and overwhelmed thought and reason; his entire existence narrowed to agony. He couldn't see, couldn't think, was frozen in place.

Then the knife pulled free. Athos' body was his own again, and it felt like it was on fire.

He flung himself forward, away from his attackers, fingers pressing fiercely against the wound in his side. Touching it was unbearable but he had to do it, had to survive, had to get them out of this. He staggered, catching himself against a desk, apparently blindly.

Behind him, Marcheaux laughed, triumphant. Athos gave a savage grin - Marcheaux had made a mistake, too. He'd assumed he'd already won, assumed Athos had chosen his direction by chance, assumed Athos was trying to run.

He reached out and closed bloody fingers around the grip of the nearest gun.

It was a training pistol, the kind they gave to cadets in the shooting range, which meant that it was as basic and reliable as they came. Athos shifted off the safety with the speed of long practice, turned, and fired.

He got off two shots before they even realised what he was doing, and he heard at least one man go down - but he didn't stay to look, flinging himself down behind the desk. Several shots cracked out in swift reply, but Marcheaux halted them with a quick, bellowed "STOP!"

"If Grimaud wanted you dead, you'd be dead," he said loudly, furiously, his voice still strained with pain. "I want you to understand that, Athos. We can work together. My benefactor is a pragmatic man, and the Musketeers have skills. Resources. I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

"Why do I get the feeling," Athos said, hating that he had to pause to heave in a breath in the middle of the sentence, "that by benefactor you don't mean Grimaud?"

"You're a clever man, Athos. Let's talk."

"While you hold my men hostage? Let them go."

"It's too late for that."

Athos' blood ran cold, even that which was still pulsing out, slick and deadly, over his fingers. He would not believe it. He could not. He pushed himself to his feet, heedless of the guns, and stared across at his enemy.

"If you have hurt them, you have seen your last day on earth."

They had to be behind one of these doors. He had to find them, _he had to -_

"They're alive. It would be pathetically easy to kill them, though, especially the one with the cross. What is it, two months since the farmhouse, and he still looks weak? They were pathetically easy to disarm, all I had to do was get a pistol to his head and the other two fell in like cattle. We emptied the armouries and locked them inside."

And, finally, Athos' sluggish mind put the pieces together, and he couldn't help grinning. "You locked three Musketeers inside an armoury."

And, right on the edge of his hearing, he heard it.

 _"Athos."_

"So what?" Marcheaux said, not realising yet how misplaced his casual arrogance was, confused by why Athos smiled instead of looking afraid. "We emptied the armoury."

 _"Athos!"_

He shouldn't have been able to hear them through the lockdown. Whatever they were doing, it was about to happen.

"They're _Musketeers_ ," Athos said, as though that explained everything - and it did. He raised the gun, trusting one more time in his instincts, in his speed, aimed at Marcheaux and fired.

"ATHOS!"

Maybe Marcheaux's men fired back, maybe they didn't - Athos didn't know. In a swift move that tore savagely at his wound, he flung himself back behind the protection of the desk as a deafening crash ripped through the room, and one of the doors exploded off its hinges. Athos heard it smash against the floor, the noise immediately followed by three furious roars - his brothers flying from the room, no doubt. The sounds of conflict, flesh against flesh, the crack of guns fired poorly one way and expertly another, because there was always a hidden compartment in Musketeer armouries, and not even Grimaud seemed to have known _that_.

He needed to stand and help, but Athos' body betrayed him for real this time. Adrenaline was no longer enough - and it occurred to him that moving might not be a good idea, because his brothers had this under control, and he needed to staunch the flow of blood, not increase it.

That's what Porthos would have said. But he wasn't Porthos.

That was how d'Artagnan found him - trying to push himself to his feet with one hand, while the other still pressed determinedly against the wound even though he wasn't sure it was helping.

"Athos," d'Artagnan said, halfway between a shout and a moan. "Oh God - Aramis, get over here!"

The lad knelt down, gently pushing Athos back to the floor and ripping off his hoodie. He peeled Athos' hand back and instantly packed the cloth around the wound, pressing down with a relentless strength that seemed to rip an entirely new hole in his side.

"I didn't - know you - hated me," he ground out, but this only elicited a shaky laugh from d'Artagnan.

"Yeah, well, a lot of people seem to hate us today. We thought you'd have a plan, Athos!"

"I had a plan," Athos replied, affront lending his voice sudden strength. "It worked, didn't it?"

"If your plan was to use yourself as a pin cushion while we sorted things out, then yeah, it worked fine."

Athos merely blinked at d'Artagnan, satisfied that the boy understood. D'Artagnan's eyes widened in surprise as he interpreted Athos' expression, though that seemed odd to Athos. How did his brother still not understand that Athos would trust him, trust all of them, with anything - his life quite happily included? Little brothers could be so strange sometimes. He'd often thought that about Thomas, too.

Aramis appeared in the next moment, looking far stronger than Marcheaux had given him credit for, and Porthos followed quickly behind.

"Marcheaux's dead," Porthos announced as Aramis began running his fingers over Athos' head before probing down to his stomach. Those hands, usually comforting, now felt like they were trailing acid behind them, but Athos was generous enough to assume Aramis wasn't doing that on purpose.

Porthos was studying Athos' face carefully. "It was a damn good shot."

"It was a good explosion," Athos returned. "Knew I could count on the three of you to blow something up if left alone for long enough."

"And you thought our skills were pointless," Aramis muttered, voice fond enough to almost make up for the unpleasant things he was doing in the vicinity of Athos' wound.

But there were more important things. "D'Art," he said, fumbling with his now freed hands to find d'Artagnan's, both their fingers slippery with Athos' blood. "Constance. She's evacuating the other floors. Go - go to her."

"I can't - I can't leave you..."

"These two aren't going to leave me alone until I'm fit to dance a ballet. Go."

With one last, agonised look, d'Artagnan gripped his hand fiercely before running for the door. "I'll call an ambulance! And Treville!" he called back, then he was gone.

"I'd pay good money to see you in a ballet," Porthos said. His words were light but his tone was taut, sounded like he was on the verge of - of something Athos didn't recognise.

"I'm sorry," he said, and they both looked at him sharply. "I'm sorry. You should never have been here this weekend - I brought you here - I fell for Grimaud's trick. I failed you all. I am not fit to be your Captain, I never was."

Porthos looked like a whirlwind of fury, and his voice was like a bottled storm. "You failed no one, Athos. None of this was your fault - and you are the one harmed. You don't know how it felt to hear you cry out - to know you were hurt and not be able to reach you. We failed you."

"You always protect us, Athos," Aramis said softly, "don't think we don't know it. My fridge has been full of food ever since I was injured, even though I rarely remember to go shopping. My desk drawer is full of chocolate. My tab is mysteriously paid whenever we go drinking. Treville came round to my flat to thank me for what I did at the farm - details I never put in my report. And you got down here minutes after Marcheaux caught us, and I'm guessing it's just because your instincts told you something was wrong. There's no one we trust more than you, Athos. No one we'd rather follow."

How could he ever tell them what this meant to him? That he had not just resented the paperwork of the captaincy but feared the title, because how could he be in sole command of these wonderful people - how could he bear sole responsibility for what happened to them? They were not just his men, they were his friends, his brothers, that made the responsibility so much worse.

And yet it made it mean so much more that they were here, with him still. They were not here because they had to be - rather, they chose to follow him. They could have gone anywhere, been anything, and they were here.

"Just rest, Captain," Porthos said. "We're staying with you."


	11. Sick Leave

_(A/N: What is this chapter? I'm not even sure. I just wanted to write something a little more light-hearted after those last few stories, and started wondering what Athos would do if forced to relax. Apologies for the long time between updates - it's reliant on inspiration sporadically striking me, which is unfortunate because I love writing these! Thanks for sharing in the madness.)_

* * *

It was on the eleventh day of Athos' sick leave that he and Jean discovered the laser pointer.

The device had an impressive range, which was useful when Athos was patently unwilling to get out of his chair. That made it a lot easier to play with than any of the toys with little catnip stuffed mice dangling off of strings, since those made Athos fear for the safety of his shoes and had a very limited range. His team's office area would periodically go from being quiet, as Jean crouched low and eyed his prey, to exploding in a burst of racing paws and clawed carpet as he executed some excellent hairpin turns.

Athos found a level of enjoyment in this he never intended to reveal to the others. If Jean was going to be a Musketeer, he needed to be well-trained, in areas other than the use of the litterbox (which was actually going surprisingly well, or so he was told - frankly, he was happy to take his friends' word on it). Jean was quick, but there had been a certain wildness to his turns that Athos was sure they could work on. Jean had a slight tendency to lose his grip on the carpet when he laid his paws on the prize, either spinning round or, on a regular basis, rolling onto his back. This didn't remotely seem to bother Jean, who saw it as an opportunity to attack toys with more fervour and the use of his back legs, but Athos was sure he could do better.

It was a last-ditch attempt to assert some kind of dignity on the situation: if he was going to have a cat, it was going to be the best trained cat in the world, and no one had to know he sometimes let it sleep on his spare jumper.

"Are you two enjoying yourselves over there?"

Athos looked up just as Jean made a running leap to smack his paws onto the red spot, which was currently two feet up the side of Aramis' desk, and gave his friend his best facsimile of an innocent smile. It probably didn't come out how he wanted it to.

Jean gave the red spot what Athos thought was a very disdainful look, and he conceded to lower it to the floor so that the cat could resume attempting to pin it under his paws and eat it.

"We're fine, thank you," he replied as haughtily as he could.

Aramis was annoyingly unfazed, which wasn't surprising.

"I want you to know how weird it is for me that you're playing with the cat while I'm doing paperwork."

"Yes, well, I'm not actually here."

"You're making a lot of noise for someone who isn't here."

"I'm on sick leave."

Finally pausing in his typing, Aramis looked up at him with an expression of outrage. "You do not get to use that as an excuse now! I spent the entire morning trying to convince you to stay at home."

"This is basically my home, Aramis."

"You know perfectly well that I meant _the home that has a bed in it_."

"This is an unusually comfortable chair."

That was technically true, though admittedly it wasn't really helping all that much. He'd been in the hospital about two weeks after the surgeries, and was eleven days into his sick leave - it was, by any measure, too early for him to be at work, and he would have reamed out anyone else who'd pulled exactly the stunt he was pulling. He really ought to be on bed rest.

But his empty apartment was starting to drive him mad. Of course, Athos wouldn't rule out the possibility that he'd been mad to start with - it was important to be balanced about these things. He didn't think so, though. He'd spent several years being an entirely competent Musketeer and earned his promotion to Captain - it seemed unlikely that these things would have happened if he was insane. On the other hand, Treville had also hired Aramis, which threw the whole thing into doubt.

The others had come around every evening, of course, and he loved them for it. They'd brought movies and food, card games and bags of prescription medication, and brought it all solicitously into his bedroom or helped him through to the reclining armchair. Aramis had come round in the mornings before work - "checking up on him", which really meant making sure he hadn't decided to be a "self-sabotaging moron" who refused to take his painkillers.

But the rest of the day he was alone. Athos hadn't had so much time to himself in years, and it took him back to those days after everything that happened with Anne and Thomas - and he couldn't think about that, but it was what the silence took him back to.

Did his brothers know how many times they'd saved him, even when it was as simple as their presence and conversation?

And perhaps it was childish, but he was _bored_. What was he supposed to do all day? His life had revolved around his job for such a long time - life was one long cycle of working, relaxing with his brothers and snatching a few hours' sleep whenever the opportunity came along, and Athos _loved_ it. It was who he was. He'd been itching to get moving - to stretch out his body, to use his mind, and sitting in bed with d'Artagnan's Netflix account really hadn't been cutting it. Never mind that his body was too stiff to move much and his mind a little foggy from the medication - that wasn't the _point_.

Which was how he'd come to persuade Aramis to take him with him to work this morning.

It had very clearly been against Aramis' better judgement, and it wasn't like Athos could really articulate his need to come, but Aramis had simply studied him and acquiesced. Athos could guess what he'd seen. It was the same as he'd seen in Aramis after the incident with Luc on the farm, which was a less terrifying version of what he'd seen after Savoy. They were warriors - they understood each other's darkness.

That wasn't to say Aramis had agreed without very strict conditions, though.

Athos wasn't allowed to do any actual work, even paperwork. He was to stay seated, unless the position started to hurt his wound, in which case he was to go to the Garrison. He had to eat whatever Aramis gave him. And he wasn't supposed to go to the bathroom alone. This was something of a sticking point, given that he was perfectly capable and had been doing it at home, thank you very much, but Aramis had given him a _look_ and Athos was forcibly reminded that he definitely wasn't in fit shape to drive himself anywhere yet, so he really ought to be nice.

All in all, it was Aramis' own fault if Athos was making trouble, because he wasn't allowed to do anything else.

"Unusually comfortable," Aramis grumbled. "I'll remind you about that when your muscles seize up."

"I'm better off here," Athos said, trying a different approach. "I've got you three around to look after me, haven't I?"

It was true, and it warmed his heart to know it, but it was also playing dirty. The softening of Aramis' eyes was an unmistakeable sign that he'd won.

"Yeah, well, if that's your argument, you're going to stay there and be looked after," Aramis said firmly.

Athos frowned, belatedly realising that he'd talked himself into a corner.

He gave Jean a weary look. "You and me have got to stick together," he said, clicking off the laser pointer. Jean spent several seconds speeding around trying to find it, before sitting back on his haunches and fixing Athos with a knowing expression.

Or a hungry one, possibly.

What could he do around here that didn't count as work? It was tempting to turn to the computer and bring up some reports because Aramis appeared to be entirely focused on his work, but Athos had seen him go from apparently asleep to levelling his gun at a suspect in about 0.5 seconds. So that was out.

Porthos was usually a little more relaxed than Aramis when it came to exactly what they were and weren't allowed to do on sick leave, and would probably be more inclined to be entertaining, but he was out collecting witness statements and wouldn't be back for hours. D'Artagnan had gone for an early lunch, and - actually, he'd been gone quite a while.

Athos eased the chair backwards on its wheels so he could get a look at the clock. It wasn't like it was a problem - their lunches usually consisted of a sandwich hastily eaten while they were working, snatched at any available time, so a longer break when the chance arose was well-deserved - but it was unusual for d'Artagnan to be gone so long.

He had a sneaking suspicion, but he couldn't stand up to resolve it - Aramis would kill him, and he _was_ sufficiently at ease that he didn't really want to antagonise his injury.

Still, there were other ways. Athos began to push the chair along, feeling oddly like he was punting, manoeuvring himself out in front of his desk. Jean watched him go, intrigued by the motion (and probably by his shoelaces), and he could practically feel the intense effort Aramis was putting into _not_ looking at him.

Out into the space between the four desks, over to the side, and out past the partition wall - yep, Constance's desk was empty too. Satisfied in a mystery solved, Athos began to wheel himself back to their area.

His chair was promptly and very rudely snagged out of the corridor.

"Athos, what are you doing?"

Athos turned his head with another of those innocent expressions, but from the way Aramis looked at him it seemed he really needed to work on perfecting that art.

"I'm solving mysteries."

Actually, Athos realised suddenly, this was an excellent form of revenge. He recognised the look on Aramis' face very acutely because it was how he felt about Aramis _every damn day_ \- utterly fond, but incredibly despairing. It was a very apt comparison, he decided cheerfully, that an Athos on strong painkillers was the same as Aramis' day to day attitude.

It did help to explain the mania that happened whenever it was Aramis who was incapacitated.

"What mystery?" asked his newly long-suffering friend.

"D'Artagnan and Constance appear to have gone to lunch together."

Aramis' expression morphed into an easy grin. "Those two do spend a lot of time with each other."

"It's been a year now, hasn't it?"

"About that. They got together because of me."

"You tricked them into sharing a chair and watching a cartoon. I'm not sure that counts."

"Athos, I'm hurt. I'm a master of romance."

"You should get that on a t-shirt."

"You're assuming I don't have one already."

"Frankly, I've given up assuming anything about you."

He was expecting a retort, but Aramis just grinned and patted him lightly on the back. "Athos, much as I maintain you'd have been better off in bed, I have missed having you around this place. Porthos and d'Artagnan don't have anything like your staying power for an argument."

"I'm flattered," he said dryly, though Aramis' words gave him that warm, pleased feeling again. He'd never doubted his place amongst his brothers, but there was something wonderful about hearing it anyway.

Bickering was excellent entertainment, though Jean didn't seem to agree - he'd taken sanctuary on the soft blanket folded up by Aramis' desk. (It had been quickly discovered that expensive cat beds were of far less interest to him than pilfered soft fabrics.) All the same, he probably ought to let Aramis get back to work and find something else to do...

Fortuitously, he was saved from his act of heroism by a door flinging open, followed by familiar raised voices.

"I didn't ask for your help, did I?"

"Constance, please, can we talk about this outside?"

"I don't want to talk about it at all!"

Constance stormed towards them, her face shaped with such fury that Athos found himself ducking down behind the safety of the partition. Aramis, beside him, mirrored the action. Fortunately, she stopped short of their area, and there was a squeak that suggested she'd flung herself into her own desk chair.

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"You always do this! You always act like I need some man around to fix things for me!"

"It's not like that!" d'Artagnan shouted back furiously. "I'm just trying to help, what's wrong with that?"

Despite his instincts for self-preservation, Athos found himself inching the chair back out again, the barest few inches out past the partition. They both looked red in the face and utterly angry, and he wondered how long the argument had been going on. A few heads were turned in their direction, but one withering look from Constance sent their colleagues scurrying back to work. Athos could only hope his invalid status would protect him if she looked his way.

"I can look after myself."

"I know you can!"

"I don't need anyone protecting me," she snapped, her words still loud and biting.

"It's not protecting - he was overcharging you!"

"Which I'd noticed, and which I was entirely capable of sorting out myself! Every single time!"

D'Artagnan's scowl deepened. "If this is still about that mission last week-"

"I was in position to take him down! I knew where the threats were, because that is my _job_ , and I knew I had time. But you decided to pull me into cover and we lost him again!"

"I had to know you were safe!"

"Our jobs aren't safe, d'Artagnan! I'm not going to quit so you can feel better knowing where I am!"

Athos heard Aramis catch his breath beside him, and felt his own eyebrows rise. Surely d'Artagnan hadn't been _that_ foolish?

"I'd never ask you to quit," d'Artagnan said, hurt seeping into his anger. "That's not fair."

"But you have to understand that I am good at what I do, and I don't need protecting!"

"Is it so bad that I want to support you? Can you honestly tell me you wouldn't blink an eye if you saw someone raising a weapon on me that you weren't sure I'd seen?"

It was a very reasonable question, and if they were both less worked up then Athos felt sure it would have helped d'Artagnan quite a lot, but the argument was a bit too far gone for that now.

"But I had seen it, and you blew the mission!"

"I won't apologise for that! You can ask me every day for the rest of my life and I won't be sorry for looking out for you!"

"What, and you'll do it every day?"

"Yeah, I will!"

"I won't let you!"

"I want to! I want to spend my entire life looking out for you, and having you look out for me, even if neither of us really needs it, just because it's better that way! You might not need my help but I'm always going to want to give it to you and nothing is ever going to change that, so you're stuck with it."

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Constance turned back to her computer with an expression that suggested she was trying to encase it in ice through force of will, and slammed the keyboard so hard Athos swore he heard something crack. D'Artagnan came around to their side of the partition, looking like he had his own personal stormcloud; he ignored Athos, Aramis and even Jean entirely, dropping into his seat and glowering at nothing in particular.

Very cautiously and slowly, Athos turned to Aramis.

"Did you just hear that too?" he said in an undertone.

"Oh yeah."

"Did he basically just-"

"Propose? It did sound like it."

"And she..."

"Yeah."

"Hmm." Athos tapped his fingers against the arm of the chair thoughtfully. "I wonder when they'll realise."

Aramis, for once in his life, stayed silent, turning back to his own work with a private grin.

Athos began the slow process of pushing himself back across to his own desk, studiously avoiding eye contact with d'Artagnan, and wincing every time the wheels squeaked because he really didn't want to draw Constance's attention.

Sick leave was _definitely_ more fun at work.


	12. Ghosts

_(A/N: **A warning for this chapter** : it's darker than the others, and involves flashbacks, survivor's guilt and a panic attack. A couple of suggestions got me thinking - for an Aramis chapter and for something about Savoy, and thus this was born! It's definitely much darker, but it explores another of the ways in which the Musketeers are always looking out for each other. I'm a little less sure about this one so I hope it worked._

 _The response to the last chapter was absolutely amazing. You guys make me so happy!_

 _ _On with the update. Sorry, Aramis. I have plans to make this up to you in the next chapter.)__

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Not long after it had happened, a reporter asked Aramis what the worst thing was about Savoy.

He didn't remember if he'd given an answer. There was a lot he didn't remember about those days. He knew Porthos had tried to punch the man who asked, knew that Athos had held him back while speaking furiously to the crowd who'd followed them from the headquarters to Athos' flat. But did he remember it happening, or did he just know because he'd been told?

He did remember the question, though.

What was the worst thing about Savoy?

It was like asking what was the worst thing about being dead. The worst thing was that it had happened; there was no separating it out into component parts.

He had woken up surrounded by twenty dead friends.

He wished he could remember them the way they had been - enjoying what had basically seemed to be a work-sanctioned holiday, a week spent camping in the Savoy countryside to get to know each other. Men and women, so young and lively, so confident in their own strength and the _right_ of what they were training to do. They were drunk on their own dreams, so ready for the long careers as Musketeers stretching out in front of them. That was how they deserved to be remembered, those twenty one who had sat with him around the campfire, cooking food, making tea, getting to know each other's lives. Laughter and life in the cool night, in the light of stars and flames.

Aramis knew those happier times had happened, but when he pictured their faces, they were cold and still; covered with blood in gory contrast to the early fall of snow. When he tried to hear their voices, he heard screams in the stillness of the night.

He knew the truth of it now, thanks to Marsac. Not long after d'Artagnan had joined the Musketeers, Marsac had returned to demand the truth. Treville had been involved, and Louis' old partner Richlieu, whose position Feron had more recently occupied, had been at the heart of it. Corruption right at the core of the Musketeers.

It had shaken his faith in Treville, but not broken it. Their old Captain hadn't known what he was involved in. Treville had stood by him so many times, stood by them all, so when Marsac tried to kill him Aramis' decision hadn't been driven by thought but by sheer instinct, because he could not lose Treville.

So he'd lost Marsac instead, and Aramis was the last.

They'd buried Marsac with the others, and he might have hoped that would be the end of it. The nightmares never stopped - they never would. So many nights he saw them as they'd been when he awoke, injuries throbbing, his head so painful and dazed that it was long minutes before he could interpret what he was seeing. Dead bodies strewn across the snow that had fallen while they slept, some still at the threshold of their tents. They'd barely even been armed. They should have been safe.

And he saw Victor Amadeus, the Savoy-based crime lord he'd injured that night without knowing. He knew now why his fellow Musketeers had died - to protect a spy within Amadeus' organisation, the man's own wife, whose information would one day topple an empire that ruined lives.

What was worse? That he knew he would never escape their spectres, or that some days went by that he managed to barely think of them at all?

He had survived, he alone, and he did not deserve that. He did not deserve to forget.

But he wanted to. If he could not remember them living then with all his sinful, selfish heart Aramis wanted to forget them, wanted to be free of what had happened.

There was no "worst thing" about Savoy, but the worst part of surviving it was that he never knew when it would strike.

There was nothing special about today. There was no trigger. No snow, no fire, no cawing birds, no sound that cracked like gunfire, no distant scream.

It was early afternoon, a rare day off, and Aramis was walking to the shop on the corner of his estate because he'd run out of milk.

It was stupid. It was normal. He was mulling over the case they'd just closed, a string of thefts from wealthy homes, running through the leads they'd followed to make sure they hadn't missed anything. This was a habit he sometimes wondered if he'd picked up from Athos, because he could tell from a single look at his friend's face after a case that he was still pondering every scenario, analysing where they went wrong and what they could improve for next time. Porthos preferred to discuss these issues out loud over a drink, whereas d'Artagnan was still, quite often, prepared to ignore them entirely as soon as he'd written out his report. Ah, the brashness of the young.

Aramis was smiling about that thought as he took his usual shortcut. The footpath ran through a patch of green too small to be called a park, but it was edged with trees and planted, here and there, with carefully cultivated flowers.

He'd walked that way a hundred times without a thought, but this time - this time.

Nothing was different, but he caught himself thinking, idly, that it was a beautiful piece of earth.

Aramis' breath caught in his throat. His blood thundered in his ears - too loud, too fast, too strong. He was alive. He was alive and they were dead, all of them, glassy eyes staring unseeing up at the sky, mouths open to call for help that wasn't coming and he couldn't _breathe_ -

There were running footsteps and it meant they were coming for him, coming back to finish the job, and he had to run but he couldn't leave his friends, couldn't leave them lying here-

And then there was someone standing there, a concerned face, someone in a sports top and leggings pulling out earphones to ask if he was alright, but he wasn't alright, he could smell death on the air.

Aramis fled, and hated himself for it. He left the path, pushing his way into the trees. He had to get away. Bark grazed against his fingers as he pressed against tree trunks, not sure if he was using them for support or to prove that they were real, but why should he doubt that anything was real?

But he stopped, had to stop, when he reached a fence.

There couldn't be a fence, because he was in Savoy -

He wasn't in Savoy, he was in Paris -

But they were there, their dead eyes were watching him -

He was home, he was safe, Savoy was years ago -

Which was true? He didn't know, didn't know how to tell, because it felt the same. His head was pounding and he couldn't draw in enough breath to fuel the racing of his heart. The world was spinning.

Help. If he was in Paris, he could get help.

Aramis' hands were trembling almost too much to slip one into his pocket, but he brought the phone out and stared at the little screen. It took far longer than it should to unlock it, to bring up the first name that would help him.

The phone rang. Once - twice - what if they were there too, what if his brothers were among the dead?

"Hello."

Aramis gripped the phone like a lifeline, and realised he was crying. Silent tears were streaming down his cheeks but he still couldn't breathe, couldn't think, barely even thought to say anything.

"Aramis, if you've pocket dialled me again, you owe me dinner."

Calm, wry, alive. Aramis managed to find the right syllables.

"Athos."

A beat of silence at the other end of the line, and when Athos spoke again, his voice was tense. "Aramis, what's wrong?"

He had to catch his breath, just long enough to know. "Athos - where am I?"

It was stupid because how could Athos know?

But his brother understood. Athos always understood.

"You're in Paris, Aramis. It's Friday afternoon. I saw you this morning. We had breakfast together at the cafe under Porthos' flat. You ordered pancakes, but you stole Porthos' bacon. You told us you planned to spend the day watching old episodes of the A-Team, and d'Artagnan did an awful impression of Hannibal. Do you remember?"

He latched on to Athos' voice, to the memories it evoked. He did remember - he remembered breakfast, remembered pouring so much syrup onto his pancakes that Athos told him he was going to get sick, and tipping more on just to prove a point even though he did feel queasy afterwards. And if that had happened today he couldn't be in Savoy.

He couldn't be.

"Do you remember?"

There was something tightly controlled about Athos' voice, like he was holding something back, and it make Aramis realise that he hadn't replied.

"Yes."

"Breathe deeper, Aramis. Focus on my voice and breathe. Deep and slow. I'm right here."

"Can't..."

"You can, and you will." He could hear something clinking in the background, a breathy quality to Athos' voice as though he was moving, but he spoke with the authority of a Captain. "That's an order, Aramis. Listen to my voice, and breathe."

"Keep talking," Aramis managed to say, and wondered if Athos knew it for the desperate plea it was.

It didn't matter, because Athos spoke.

His voice, soft and steady, recounted the thefts they'd just finished investigating. Every word brought back the memory, reinforced the here and now, anchored Aramis to his own life. He even huffed out a laugh at Athos' account of the arrest, at his dry commentary on his disappointment at finding the perpetrator of the crime spree, a man with a taste for high-end fashion but no idea how to put an outfit together. Beyond, he heard the hum of an engine, the occasional squealing of tires, and he knew Athos was coming.

He was breathing evenly by the time the voice on the phone merged with one in front of him. Athos was approaching through the trees, solid, steady, real; he was holding the phone up to his ear and a tablet in his other hand, no doubt tracking Aramis' phone.

Aramis lowered his own, but found he couldn't let go of it, couldn't lose the connection.

A moment later, Athos was kneeling beside him and his hands were warm on Aramis' face, running gently over skin still wet with tears.

Just tears. Not blood, because that head wound had healed long ago. Years ago.

"Hello, brother," Athos murmured, and Aramis' breath hitched again. He wasn't aware of either of them moving but suddenly Athos was enfolding him. He was pressed up against his brother's shirt, breathing in familiar cologne and fabric softener; Athos had been doing his laundry.

There was something so damn normal, so domestic about that that Aramis almost laughed. This was real. This was tangible, in a way that those ghosts weren't.

Athos' arms were a constant protection around Aramis as his brother held him close. This safety was too familiar for embarrassment - there was nothing Athos hadn't already seen, nothing he would judge him for. So he sat there, let himself be held, and listened to his brother's heartbeat.

"What was it?" Athos asked softly, after a long while.

Aramis sighed but didn't turn his head. He was reluctant to move from this position, even though he was becoming conscious that they were both sitting on an uncomfortable mess of sticks and leaves.

"It was stupid, it had nothing to do with it at all. I just thought as I came through here that it was a beautiful place, and..." He trailed off, not sure he could find the words. Athos didn't say anything but waited for him, his fingers running through Aramis' hair. "It just hit me that they don't get to see things like this. They don't get to see lovely places, they don't get to spend a day watching TV, they don't walk to the shops or share meals with their friends. I'm still here and they're just... not."

Athos breathed out slowly, and his fingers stilled on Aramis' head.

"We will never forget any of them, Aramis. Their deaths are not a burden for you to carry."

"But I failed," he whispered, a sinner at confession. "I couldn't help them."

"That is not your fault. There was nothing anyone could have done in your place. Nothing that Porthos, nor d'Artagnan nor I could have done better."

"It shouldn't have been me."

Athos' grip around his shoulders tightened. Aramis still couldn't see his face, but there was something painfully broken in Athos' voice when he replied.

"None of them deserved to die, Aramis, and neither did you. I wish none of it had happened but I am profoundly grateful that you lived. Never forget that. If it had been one of the others who survived, would you want them to be haunted by your memory?"

He wouldn't, of course he wouldn't. He would want them to live free of the pain.

"I can't remember them," he whispered, closing his eyes against Athos' reaction, though he wasn't sure what he was expecting.

"What do you mean?"

"How they were when they were alive. I can't remember. I can only see..."

Athos curled his hand protectively around Aramis' head. "Then we will help you."

So they did. Athos texted the others and then, finally, pulled away from Aramis - but only to offer his hand. He helped Aramis to his feet, and didn't let go. They found Athos' car, carelessly parked by the side of a road, and Athos drove him home. Athos ordered take out, which arrived just after Porthos and d'Artagnan, who'd also brought along several bottles of wine.

None of them really spoke as they ate; Aramis, at least, felt like he was trying to marshal his memories, trying to think of happier times, but he still saw them in the snow.

It was Athos who broke the silence first.

"The first day I met Jacques, he thought I was Treville."

Porthos laughed - a brief sound, but a warming one. "I remember that. It was his first day, and you actually let him think you were the Captain!"

D'Artagnan looked at Athos incredulously. "You didn't."

Athos was trying to keep an impassive face, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, creeping up into a smile. "Well, it was quite amusing."

"Poor Jacques. He spent the whole day bringing Athos coffee, filing his paperwork-"

"I can't believe you'd do that to a newbie!" d'Artagnan said, looking more delighted than his words suggested.

"He got his own back in the end," Athos said, shrugging. "Several of us took a day off to go paintballing, and he got everyone to ally against me. Even these two."

Aramis remembered that. He remembered the huddle - him, Porthos, Jacques, Marsac and Danielle, another Musketeer - and organising how they would approach the wooden fortress Athos was defending...

And for a moment he could see them. He saw Marsac laughing beside him, not walking away. Saw Jacques and Danielle bickering over tactics, not fallen on the ground.

They spoke for hours, long after night fell. They kept the lights dim and the wine flowing, and told d'Artagnan story after story about the friends he'd never meet. It felt like a wake, their own memorial several years delayed. It felt like peace.

The memories would never go away. No amount of stories could erase the nightmares, or even take away that feeling that he shouldn't have been the one to walk away.

But he had these three, the most loyal friends he'd ever known. They knew his darkness and they did not blame him for it - and, slowly, day by day, they saved him from it.

And as the hours passed, Aramis found that he could remember his lost friends' smiles after all.


	13. Marrying a Musketeer, Part I

_(A/N: OK, when I said I was going to spend this chapter being nice to Aramis, I did mean it. I just apparently changed my mind. This is the first of a two parter in which I spend my time being unkind to Athos instead. Or Athos spends it being unkind to himself, whichever. Please know that the author's views on his character do not match his own; I think he's wonderful. Cute things happen too! The next update shouldn't take too long; this was intended to be a single chapter initially but it's started getting away from me... (Also, it may be full of errors I'm not noticing. If so, sorry - I'm sick!)_

 _Also - I am often really hopeless at replying to reviews which is pretty rubbish of me, but I want you all to know how much they mean to me. You were particularly wonderful about that last chapter, and getting to read all those lovely words was very special. Thank you!)_

* * *

Athos could be accused of a lot of flaws (and rightly so, in his opinion), but no one could ever dispute that when he was given a responsibility he took it seriously. His captaincy was an obvious example, but there were subtler ways that the trait exhibited itself, not least among which was the very solemn way that he would remain seated for as long as Jonny chose to use him as a bed, not moving for anything short of a life-or-death situation.

The latest manifestation of this aspect of his character was d'Artagnan and Constance's wedding.

The entire build up to the event had felt distinctly like living in a sitcom. D'Artagnan had shuffled into Athos' apartment one evening with a deep frown, and spent half an hour moving things around in the kitchen while Athos waited with an outer facade of stoic indifference that concealed an inner core of 'What The Hell Is Going On?'

He'd just got back into attempting to read _The Lord of the Rings_ (a challenge, given the length of the series and his deficit of free time) when d'Artagnan's head appeared in the kitchen doorway. His eyes darted to Athos' face then away, and this process repeated several times while his mouth opened and closed. D'Artagnan was not normally a terribly shy man, but anyone who had begun, from what Athos had spied through the door, to attempt to make pasta without remembering the water is clearly having a difficult day.

"Before we're old, d'Artagnan."

The words burst out like Athos had removed the keystone from a dam.

"Have I already proposed to Constance?"

Athos blinked. He'd anticipated some kind of emotional crisis, but that didn't mean he was prepared for _this_ on an evening where he hadn't expected to do anything but read and eat a quiet dinner. Buying himself a few precious seconds, Athos carefully placed his bookmark onto the open page, closed the book and set it down on the arm of his chair.

"Why would you say that?" he asked eventually.

D'Artagnan was starting to go red. "Well... We were sort of talking, earlier, just about going on holiday, and she said it would be alright if we couldn't get away until we were seventy but she'd quite like to go sooner. And it made me think of - well, when we had that argument in the office - and I think we sort of yelled some stuff about being together our whole lives..."

Athos, of course, knew exactly the incident d'Artagnan was referring to, and how he and Aramis had perceived it. Not that it had been much good as a proposal, since there had been no actual asking from either party. About two months had passed since so he'd kind of figured it had either not meant what they thought or d'Artagnan and Constance had both decided to ignore it, but now it seemed that his brother really might just be that slow on the uptake.

It was said that discretion was the better part of valour, though.

"Allow me to answer your question with one of my own. Do you _want_ to have already proposed to Constance?"

The blush deepened so far that it looked like d'Artagnan's ears might be about to catch fire. Athos had to fight the urge to smile with all of his self-control, sensing that this was not the moment to push too hard.

D'Artagnan mumbled something unintelligible.

Athos merely raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to try again.

D'Artagnan sighed. "Yes."

A very small, very childish part of Athos mentally punched the air in delight, while the rest of him concentrated on keeping the smile off his face.

"Then, though I am not an expert in these things, I think you might want to try again. I'm not entirely sure that would have counted."

"Right." D'Artagnan nodded thoughtfully, then a look of panic crossed his face. He disappeared back into the kitchen, pursuing a sudden smell of smoke, and there was the sound of clattering pans and running water.

The fire alarm went off a second later.

As an impressive stream of curse words flooded out from the kitchen, Athos allowed himself a brief, broad smile before picking up his book again.

"Oh," he shouted over the cacophony of noise, opening up the book at the right page again. "And if you want help, ask Aramis. For God's sake, don't come to me."

D'Artagnan yelled something very unflattering in reply, and Athos went back to his reading with a chuckle.

His very genuine joy for his young friend only grew over the following days, aided by the fact that d'Artagnan had blessedly taken his advice to look to Aramis for romantic assistance instead of him. Athos was of the opinion that he killed any romance he came near, though he had to hold this view very privately because Aramis had looked like he'd expressed a personal hatred for kittens, sunshine and chocolate when he'd said it before. No one with a heart could handle making Aramis look like he wanted to cry, but fortunately Aramis' famous success with winning over basically anyone he wanted (including crotchety Musketeers) was legendary, and d'Artagnan was happy to be nudged in that direction.

From what Athos gathered from Aramis' lengthy feedback, delivered to Athos and Porthos with a certain amount of glee over the next few off-duty evenings they managed to snatch together, he and d'Artagnan had run through the classics and thoroughly disregarded all of them. Constance wasn't the type to want a public proposal - Aramis was heartily convinced she was going to say yes, but wouldn't appreciate the pressure of all those bystanders expecting her to abide by convention. On the other hand, cooking her a meal at home, while likely to be a culinary success from d'Artagnan (if he was concentrating), seemed too formal for the way their relationship had developed.

Athos did not feel entirely able to contribute to this whirlwind of romantic ideas, except to entirely agree that a public proposal sounded intensely awkward. It wasn't until the third such evening - well, realistically it had to be called a night since they hadn't left work until eleven - when, having filed into their favourite pub together, Aramis threw himself down at their usual table with a melodramatic sigh.

"I despair of him!"

Athos and Porthos exchanged a look. Porthos' was exasperated, while Athos' eloquently expressed the notion that he was handing this issue over to Porthos entirely.

Porthos merely rolled his eyes. "Bring some wine, then," he replied to this silent communication.

"Aramis?"

"I'm too distraught for drink!"

"Tequila it is."

"Athos, that had better be a joke. Hey - Athos!"

When Athos rejoined the table ten minutes later, burdened with two bottles of wine and three glasses, Porthos had finally got Aramis to give a proper rendition of his story.

"He doesn't like any of my ideas," Aramis said woefully, making grabby hands for one of the bottles. Athos ignored this, pouring Porthos the first glass just to enjoy the pouty expression this drew from Aramis.

"D'Artagnan's still not proposed yet, I assume?" Athos asked dryly, finally deigning to fill Aramis a glass before settling down with his own.

"Everything I suggest is just wrong for her, apparently! Too dramatic, or too intimate, or too impersonal - what does the man want? Doesn't he realise it's really just a formality? They're disgustingly in love, and they've lived together this long without anyone getting maimed, they might as well be married already."

"There's the romantic we all know and love," Porthos said, chuckling.

Aramis shook his head. "I've _tried_ being romantic. I think he's trying to talk himself out of it. That's probably what he's doing right now. I told him we were coming out, and you know what he said? That he's going to go and think."

"Well, that would make a pleasant change," Athos said dryly.

"You're missing the point entirely!"

"Deep breaths, Aramis," Porthos chimed in, still giving a smile far too happy to be sympathetic. "He'll figure it out. Maybe you're looking at it wrong."

"I've looked at it from every angle! How can I still be getting it wrong?"

"It's Constance, isn't it? It's like you said, she already knows if she wants to marry him or not. Asking shouldn't be a ceremony."

"It's always a ceremony!"

"No, Porthos is right," Athos said suddenly, looking down thoughtfully into his glass as the lights reflected off the dark liquid. "He should just ask whenever feels right. Something day to day, without the pressure. Don't they go hiking together?"

"That could work," Porthos said, nodding his approval.

Aramis stared at Athos. "I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"Nothing." Aramis beamed. "I'm going to call d'Artagnan."

He leapt out of his seat, phone already in his hand as he made for the door. It was quite something to watch him go - where Athos would have skirted around the crowd and Porthos would have pushed his way through, people somehow just seemed to make way for Aramis.

Athos, not entirely clear on what had just happened (his usual state of being around Aramis), settled for leaning back in his seat and savouring the taste of the wine. They sat in silence for a little while; one of the many things Athos appreciated about Porthos was his ability to not merely hold good conversation but to appreciate quiet as well. In the end, it was Athos who broke it.

"I am prepared to bet you that Constance asks him first."

"On my salary?" Porthos grinned. "I'm not taking that bet."

That was a shame, as it turned out, because it would have been the easiest money Athos ever made.

She asked him right at the end of a mission. It was so late it was early; they'd been working all night, Athos' team with a few others, and they were all sweaty and exhausted but thrilled with success as they went through the familiar motions of removing body armour and securing weapons. Athos was pleased - they'd all performed excellently, taking out the nerve centre of a smuggling operation without worse than bruises to show for it. They'd been efficient and effective and more criminals were off the streets, and they'd fully earned the day's sleep they were about to get - as Aramis was saying, loudly and profusely.

Until he was resoundingly interrupted by d'Artagnan almost shouting.

"Are you kidding me?"

Athos looked over, halfway through downing bottle of water, and nearly choked. Beside him, Aramis made a strangled sound that might have been an effort not to cheer, and Porthos gave a low whistle.

Constance, her face flushed and her smile sparkling, was on one knee in front of d'Artagnan, who looked like he'd just been hit with a truck.

"I've been trying to work out how to propose to you for ages!" d'Artagnan continued, staring down at her. "And you just - you-"

"Did you expect me to wait forever?" she asked, her grin turning cheeky, and d'Artagnan seemed to be speechless. He shook his head then grabbed her hand, pulling her up into a fierce hug, followed by a long kiss.

A certain amount of wolf-whistling followed this, but Aramis called out in a stage-whisper, "D'Artagnan, you might want to be sure this time?"

Athos really did choke then, even though he'd already swallowed the water, and Porthos gave him a few heavy but well-intentioned pats on the back as d'Artagnan shot Aramis a rude hand gesture without ever looking away from Constance.

"Yes. Of course, yes."

Once they'd recovered from the surprise - and Athos from the bout of coughing - the three of them went over to congratulate the couple. This involved a lot of hugging between the others; d'Artagnan practically threw himself on Aramis, talking a mile a minute about things Athos couldn't interpret, before giving Porthos the same treatment. When he came to Athos it was to give him a firm, exuberant handshake, and Athos was reminded again of that gulf between how he interacted with people and the natural ease with which they interacted with each other. Did it bother d'Artagnan that it didn't come so easily to him? There was so much he ought to say, but the words seemed to tie up in his throat. He was proud, desperately so, but why couldn't he say it?

Constance had no compunctions about hugging him, though. She wrapped her arms tightly around him once d'Artagnan had been folded back into the group, and after a moment he hugged her back. She pulled away just enough to smile at him.

"Thank you, Athos."

He frowned. "I didn't do anything."

She shook her head. She was vibrant, even when telling him he was wrong - perhaps especially then. "You did everything. I have him because of you."

This was something Athos was still puzzling over later that day - much later, when he'd finally managed to get home and get a few hours' sleep. He woke up muzzy and confused by the fact that it was sunny outside - you'd think his body would be accustomed to erratic sleeping schedules by now, but apparently not - and by a sound he eventually identified as his own doorbell.

Athos took a brief moment to survey himself - still wearing his clothes from the mission, now in considerable disarray, his hair hanging messy and unshowered around his face. Well, it was about par for the course, and the person at the door was either a friend who wouldn't care or someone who was going to get the door closed in their face anyway.

He staggered through the flat and peered through the eyehole, too inherently suspicious just to open it. Upon bleary recognition of his guest, he opened the door with a frown.

"Why didn't you use your key?"

"This is important, Athos."

"So was my sleep," he grumbled, stepping back enough to admit d'Artagnan. The man looked quite put together - clean, smartly dressed, even like he'd brushed his hair, which he usually regarded as something that happened to other people.

"I'll make you a cup of tea," d'Artagnan said, like it was a peace offering, though it would have been a better one if he hadn't woken Athos up in the first place.

A different man might have taken the opportunity to have a quick shower; Athos merely crashed down onto the sofa, not even opening his eyes until a warm mug was pressed into his hands.

A few sips of a well-made tea was enough to make him regard d'Artagnan with something a degree below murderous intent. "Well?"

"Will you be my best man?"

The question surprised Athos so intensely that he just blinked, and his mind appeared to just delete it entirely, because that couldn't be what had just happened.

He attempted to ask "What?" in a dignified voice, but what came out was more in the "Whu...?" vein.

D'Artagnan didn't look impatient, just nervous. "Me and Constance. Our wedding. Will you be my best man? You don't really have to do anything," he added, beginning to pace in front of the sofa as he rambled on. "You don't have to make a speech or anything, not if you don't want to. It's just that I was thinking about who I'd want up there with me and it wasn't even a question. You've been beside me through so much and I'd always want you to have my back on any mission, so there's no one else I'd want for this. You can have time to think about it, no problem, we haven't even sorted a date yet, we don't want to wait too long but it might end up being kind of spontaneous, whenever everyone can get a day off work..."

Athos' brain took the length of that entire speech to catch up with itself. He felt at a major disadvantage - by the looks of things d'Artagnan had slept little or not at all, and had apparently instead spent the time planning his wedding and working out, somehow, that Athos was the best candidate for his best man. _Athos_ , whose brain currently felt as useful as a chocolate teapot, and could hardly compute the words coming at him.

All the same, on a very basic level, d'Artagnan was clearly distressed and it was Athos' job to fix that.

"You want me," he said, slowly and fighting the urge to close his eyes, "to be your best man."

D'Artagnan stopped, pivoting to face him. "Yes."

Athos took another sip, but the world didn't make any more sense. "Have you thought this through?"

D'Artagnan stared. "Weren't you listening?"

"Well, yes, but - Aramis or Porthos would do better, surely?"

"Athos." D'Artagnan dropped down onto the sofa beside him. "They're my brothers, always, of course they are. They mean the world to me. But despite what you might think, that doesn't make them right for this, it doesn't mean they'd be better at it than you. I want you there because of how much _you_ mean to me. You don't have to do anything except be there. Please?"

Was this actually happening? Athos was now regretting not having stuck his head under a spray of cold water, but on the off chance that it was real...

No one had ever asked something like this of him before. He knew his brothers loved him back, dearly, but the proof always blindsided him anyway.

His voice was thick when he spoke.

"D'Artagnan, if it's what you want, I would be honoured to make sure your wedding day is the best it can possibly be."

D'Artagnan's nerves vanished in an instant. He beamed, grabbed Athos' free hand and shook it so eagerly Athos nearly spilt the tea anyway, and bounced up onto his feet again. For someone who'd worked all night, he seemed like a concentrated ball of energy. It was reminiscent of having an excited puppy in the flat.

"Thank you! I'm so glad - thank you! I'm going to tell Constance!"

And the puppy bounded out of his flat faster than Athos could get his brain in gear to say goodbye. He sat on the sofa for a while, sipping his tea while the sun began to set. He still wasn't sure he understood why d'Artagnan would choose him, when there was the other two and even Treville at hand, but putting that aside... He _had_ chosen him, and that made him feel a warmth that was nothing to do with the hot drink. D'Artagnan was prepared to have a surly, cynical and taciturn man stand next to him while he made his vows to Constance - simply because, apparently, Athos was Athos.

It wasn't just going to be a ceremonial title, though. Athos felt a surge of purpose. He'd never been terribly enamoured by weddings - it wasn't like his own had led to anything good - but d'Artagnan and Constance would never end the way he and Milady had. And they deserved the best possible start - and Athos had meant his promise.

He would do whatever he needed to, to make sure the wedding went well.


	14. Marrying a Musketeer, Part II

_(A/N: So this ended up being the longest chapter in this story so far. Why? Who knows. Apparently I'm a sucker both for the boys having group fun and Athos being a self-sacrificing hero. I just wanted to get this one out quickly after the last, so please forgive its very poor state of editing._

 _I'm so glad you lovely reviewers liked the first part, so I hope this concludes the two-parter well! Thanks everyone.)_

* * *

Aramis and Porthos weren't remotely surprised that Athos had accepted the position as best man. When Athos relayed the story to them, he pointed out d'Artagnan's surprise at his acquiescence - only for Aramis to roll his eyes.

"D'Artagnan loves you, but he also still hides behind me whenever you do that thing with your face. I'm not surprised he thought you'd say no, but it was obvious to the rest of us you wouldn't," he said airily, selecting another shirt from the rack. "What do you think of this one?"

"It looks exactly the same as the last five you showed me," Athos said dryly. "What thing with my face?"

"You know, that one where your eyes go hard and your mouth turns down and you look like you're working out how to hide a body. The one you give the guys we chase, and the one you gave me when Jonny ate your sandwich yesterday."

"That was justified."

"Perhaps," Aramis conceded, leaning closer to examine the fabric. Athos still couldn't fathom what was different between what looked like several identical white shirts. "I can't choose! Porthos, what do you think?"

"Remind me why I'm here?" Porthos said. He was leaning against a mirror - the only bit of wall not blocked by clothes rails - with his arms folded, looking deeply unimpressed.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Well, you're not just supposed to be watching me shop. You're meant to be choosing suits."

"Are there different kinds? I'll just grab a jacket, shirt and trousers whenever you're finished, it'll only take a moment."

"And I already own suits," Athos pointed out. It was true, even if it was against his better judgement; being Captain came with some unfortunate requirements at times, which involved dressing up and pretending he could talk to politicians.

Aramis looked between them both, throwing his hands in the air - a move that would have looked more dramatic if he hadn't had a shirt in each hand. "It's a wedding! Porthos, you need to choose a suit that _matches_ , and Athos, I'm willing to bet none of yours actually fit you properly. Will you at least go and talk to one of the professionals here?"

"My suits are fine."

"You're d'Artagnan's best man, which was very obviously going to happen, by the way. You need to look smart. Go and look at jackets, I'm choosing you a tie."

Neither Porthos nor Athos were entirely sure how it happened, but they both left the shop an hour later with suits that finally met Aramis' approval. Exactly why Aramis' approval was essential was beyond Athos, but he had to admit that he did rather like what he'd bought - it was far better made than the quickly purchased ones he already had, with fabric that actually felt like it might still be comfortable at the end of a wedding. Porthos had taken a back seat entirely, prepared to accept that he needed a suit but not to be involved in its selection. Watching Aramis get to choose for him had been like watching a kid (or d'Artagnan) in a toy shop.

Fortunately, there were far more entertaining parts to the build up to the wedding too. They spent one particularly enjoyable afternoon pretending to work while watching Constance chase Jonny around the entire office floor in an attempt to fasten a clip on bow tie around his neck. They had elected a reluctant d'Artagnan to tell her they probably couldn't bring the cat to the ceremony, on the basis that out of all of them he was the one Constance was least likely to murder. Probably.

It took a while to settle on a date, and as predicted it was pretty short notice. Constance and d'Artagnan had both said all along it didn't really matter - there weren't a lot of people they wanted to invite anyway, and most of them worked in the same place. About a week ahead of schedule Treville came in offering up a day when they could borrow reinforcements from law enforcement elsewhere in the city, freeing up as many Musketeers as possible for the wedding. The short notice suited Constance's style of wedding planning, which was to sort out a venue, officiator and food, without remotely caring about anything else.

"The important thing is that it happens, not how," she said to Athos, as they shared lunch in his office a few days before the ceremony. "I'm marrying a Musketeer - if we don't do it whenever we get the chance, it's never going to happen."

"Are you sure that's not for the best?" Athos said, resolutely straight faced.

Constance just laughed and threw her rubbish at his head.

* * *

Athos took to the organisation of the bachelor party with a great deal of enthusiasm, and planned it as well as any mission. This was one area he was not prepared to yield to Aramis' experience on - no doubt Aramis had been to plenty of stag parties, but Athos had a sneaking suspicion that they usually involved getting too drunk to remember what happened. Not that Athos could talk a lot on that front, but the times he'd done that to himself had been part of concerted efforts to forget a lot of darkness; he didn't see any reason to forget having fun with his friends.

And, because Athos could plan with military precision, the day actually went remarkably smoothly. Along with all of the male Musketeers that could get time off and a few of d'Artagnan's old school friends, they embarked on a day that included, memorably, a tag archery session - a discovery Athos had been particularly happy with. They all took to it with a relish that seemed to make the instructor slightly alarmed, both sides organising complex strategies that would always quickly degenerate into chaotic warfare.

Athos' personal favourite moment was when the instructor had called out that they had five minutes left, and he'd called his team into a huddle. He was leading one team with d'Artagnan, while Aramis and Porthos were in the other. They'd just began to talk last minute tactics when a roar went up from the other end of the hall, and the entire opposing team was sprinting towards them, bows raised, the first volley of oversized, padded arrows already raining down.

"Cover!" Athos yelled, and the team broke up, taking shelter and grabbing ammo to return fire.

It was against the rules to cross the central line, but the instructor seemed to have despaired of them; Athos was just stringing a new arrow when Aramis and Porthos appeared, one either side of him. Their bows were drawn, arrows aimed down at his chest.

Athos looked between them. "Parley?"

Aramis grinned. He'd taken off his helmet and his wild hair was wrapped, Rambo-style, in a tie - who knew where he'd got it from.

"Join us against d'Artagnan?"

Athos looked between them, considering his options, and then over to where d'Artagnan and a few others were coming under heavy fire. He stood up, smiling at Aramis and Porthos, who began to lower their bows, assuming he'd agreed.

It was what he'd been waiting for. Athos quickly fired his own bow at Porthos, knocking his friend out of the game for the requisite thirty seconds, and before Aramis had had time to pull back his string he'd stolen the arrow right off his bow and was running for d'Artagnan. He grabbed one of the large inflatable blocks that formed their fort and dragged it behind him as a shield as Aramis and Porthos' team shot again.

"I think some of our men have turned traitor," he observed to d'Artagnan, as they grabbed spare arrows off the ground. "We're heavily outnumbered."

D'Artagnan looked around at the small group. His face was bright and gleaming with childish glee. "A great last stand, then?"

"All for one," Athos said, accepting a couple of arrows from Leo, one of the newest Musketeers. With a yell of their own, they surged around the shields.

It was generally agreed, afterwards, that they went down in what could only be called a heroic charge, and d'Artagnan was laughing the whole time.

They followed lunch with go-karting, in which Athos very quietly and smugly destroyed all opponents, which flabbergasted those who didn't know him well but merely made his team complain - loudly and profusely - that the selection of the activity had been very biased. D'Artagnan protested least, probably because he'd come a very close second, which Athos was privately delighted by.

Dinner devolved, inevitably, into a very long session in their favourite bar - and everyone seemed quite genuinely happy. They stayed there into the early morning, drinking and swapping every story they could think of about d'Artagnan - of which it turned out there were a considerable number, and Aramis was visibly delighted by all the new blackmail material he was building up. When fatigue finally started setting in, they grabbed a few taxis to the hotel the wedding party had booked up.

There was always a very strong feeling of satisfaction every time a mission he'd run went well, because it meant justice had been served and he'd done what he felt he'd been born to do. But this was something else entirely, this sense that his friends had had a good time today because of him, actually being quite sure that he'd got this right. As they reached their corridor and split off into their rooms, the more inebriated supported by their more sober friends, d'Artagnan lingered outside to catch Athos.

"Thank you," he said sincerely - perhaps all the more so because he was clearly somewhat drunk, having been plied with drinks all evening by the others. "I didn't know what you'd come up with, but I knew it would be good, and it was. Thanks, Athos."

"You're welcome," Athos said, and he really meant it. D'Artagnan certainly deserved it - he meant to say it out loud, but the words tied up in his throat.

As always. He could try to show it a thousand times over, but he never seemed to be able to say what his friends meant to him.

But d'Artagnan never seemed to mind. He beamed at Athos again, and staggered over to his door - which he tried to open several times with his credit card.

"Give me strength," Athos muttered to himself. On any other night he might have been tempted to leave d'Artagnan to figure this out, but he took pity on the lad, and went to his rescue.

* * *

And of course, because everything to that point had gone remarkably well, Saturday morning began with Athos' phone ringing loudly and insistently.

He answered it with an inarticulate grunt, barely even opening his eyes, but the news that was delivered rapidly over the line made him shoot upright, unpleasantly alert.

Not _today_.

"Yes. I'll be there in half an hour. No - not the others. We'll take the reinforcements. No - just me."

Athos hung up and scrambled out of bed, darkly glad he was still dressed from yesterday. It was only around seven, and the others were doubtless still asleep, but he pounded on Porthos' door until it opened.

Porthos didn't even look angry, like he knew there would be a good reason for his disturbed sleep.

"Wha's happened?"

"The smugglers from last month," Athos said, too exhausted and frustrated to be verbose. "I've got to go in - Treville's there already, he's got the other forces but he wants me leading. One of the original leaders has formed up again, we know where they're doing the sale but it's this morning."

Porthos swore violently. "Where?"

Athos told him about the disused industrial estate Treville had described, but he shook his head, looking grim. "It's got to be today, Treville says they're selling arms. We can't wait. But you're not coming."

Porthos had already been backing into his room, reaching for his shoes - but stilled, staring at Athos in disbelief. "What?"

"You and Aramis need to stay with d'Artagnan."

"Athos-"

"He _can't_ come, he's getting married today. And you and Aramis need to be with him. Call the priest, he's confirmed for three but you should make sure it's still fine. We have the reception hall from four, don't let the receptionist tell you otherwise."

"You can't go alone!"

"I can and I will," he said with finality. "I am the Captain and I am his best man, and this wedding is going to go smoothly. I will get this sorted and be at the church in time, and you are going to keep d'Artagnan occupied and make sure Aramis doesn't do anything weird."

After a long pause, Porthos gave a reluctant nod. This was why he'd come to Porthos instead of Aramis. Aramis would have argued ceaselessly against the order, and probably sought the others out to back him up. Porthos didn't like it at all, but he had a slightly more unquestioning trust of Athos' judgement.

And today wasn't about anyone except d'Artagnan and Constance.

He was about to duck out of the room when a thought struck him. "Oh - my suit's in my room. If I'm not back when you leave, bring it to the church?"

"Yeah. You'd bloody better be back, though."

* * *

 _Technically_ , everything went to plan. The raid was successful, at any rate - they caught the remnant of the smuggling gang and most of the prospective buyer's people, although some of them managed to scatter during the fight. Since it was weapons they'd been smuggling they were well-equipped with firepower, and Athos found himself grateful twice over - both for the amount of backup Treville had called in, and that none of his friends were with him today. Spending the morning of someone else's wedding taking shelter behind old machinery was one thing, but there was no way he could have let it happen to d'Artagnan. If nothing else, Constance probably would have shot Athos for it.

They recovered all the stolen weaponry. Two of the smugglers were dead, with several others badly injured, and the few others had eventually surrendered.

They'd done the job, Athos figured, although even in the privacy of his own mind he knew he was still, strictly speaking, kind of screwed.

He waited until Treville had raised a hand in farewell and was joining those escorting the prisoners away before he sidled over to the waiting ambulances. It wasn't like he'd been shot - well, not anywhere except his vest, so nowhere that it _counted_ \- and the other injuries were just from a hand to hand fight.

He related as much, very succinctly, to the paramedic, who gave him an unconvinced look.

"You have a dislocated shoulder and two probable cracked ribs, along with some fantastic bruising. You need to go to the hospital."

Athos tugged out his phone, diplomatically using his good arm. It was already half past one. If he went to the hospital, there was no way he'd make it in time.

"Set my arm."

"Sir, you need to be in a hospital, you need pain medication and x-rays-"

"No meds. I'll go tonight," he said tightly, bracing himself - again with the arm that didn't feel like every movement was a lance of fire. "Set my arm."

It took a little persuasion and several promises of seeking proper attention later, but the paramedic finally conceded to gently rotate his arm until the joint popped sickeningly back into place. Athos managed to stifle the groan, relieved to have the wrongness of it out of the way.

"Will you at least let me put it in a sling?"

Athos felt a stab of guilt - the poor man was only trying to do his job, but there was no way he could go to the wedding wearing a sling without causing more trouble. But he conceded to take the offered fabric, with a promise to wear it later, and the paramedic released him with more stern words.

He caught a ride back to base with some of the force who'd conducted the raid, then called a taxi. He phoned Porthos on the way and spent the whole journey checking his phone for the time, and chucked several large notes at the driver when they got to the hotel before two. Porthos met him in the corridor, and practically shoved Athos into his shower, hanging his suit up on the door before he left.

It turned out that showering with one almost-incapacitated arm and painful ribs was about as challenging as it sounded, but he managed to get the worst of the dirt and smell from the last two days off without damaging himself further. Dressing was a challenge, but he managed it as quickly as possible and staggered back outside. To his surprise, Porthos was gone and Aramis was sitting on the bed.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked without preamble.

Athos raised his eyebrows. The effect was probably diminished by the damp hair hanging around his face. "I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

Athos frowned, and Aramis stood up. He was brandishing, of all things, a comb, and he ignored Athos' protestations and set to work taming his hair. "You should have taken us with you."

"It was fine. We got all the smugglers, they're in for questioning but I think we've got their whole operation now."

"That's not what I meant." Aramis stepped back, and there were faint creases around his eyes. "You're hurt."

Was something giving him away, or was Aramis fishing? Athos stuck to his guns. "I'm fine. Where's d'Artagnan?"

Aramis clearly didn't believe him, but there also wasn't any blood showing through the suit, so he let it go for now. Athos didn't doubt it was only a stay of execution. "Come on."

D'Artagnan, as it turned out, was not a remotely nervous groom. The others had already gathered downstairs, men and women alike - Athos was curious as to what the women had been up to yesterday, because several of them looked more hungover than the men. D'Artagnan was smiling broadly, and no wonder - Constance was beside him, in a beautiful dress, looking radiant.

"Athos!" They called him over, and Porthos gave a cheer.

"Time to go!" he shouted, waving everyone towards the doors. "Come on, people, Musketeers getting married here."

* * *

The ceremony itself was short, or at least that was how Athos remembered it afterwards. It hardly seemed to take any time at all. One moment he was taking his place at the front of the little church, standing behind d'Artagnan - the next moment Constance was coming down the aisle, escorted by both Aramis and Porthos - d'Artagnan and Constance both exchanging their vows, grinning like excited children when the other said "I do", as if there could have been any doubt - Athos handing d'Artagnan the rings, two simple silver bands - Aramis and Porthos cheering during the kiss.

It was short, simple, beautiful, and completely worth everything.

The hall they'd hired for the reception was right by the church, and the raucous party piled in, talking and laughing. The room was laid out with tables, with a huge buffet and bar at one end, and the set up for a band at the other. Athos was aware that he hadn't eaten all day, but his appetite was nowhere to be found; the inability to breathe in deeply coupled with the nauseating pain in his shoulder put paid to that. He was becoming increasingly aware that he really _did_ need to go to the hospital, but he couldn't yet. There was one more thing to do.

As the others sat down, he remained standing. One of the caterers, filling each guest's glass with champagne, clearly caught wind of his plan and handed him a filled flute.

"If I may?" All eyes turned on him. Athos was used to being the focus of attention at work, but it was different now, when he was trying to draw on something entirely different.

And there was d'Artagnan, watching eagerly - not having expected a speech from him at all.

How did the others do it? Athos thought about yesterday, about that wonderfully carefree fun - choosing to go down in a blaze of glory with d'Artagnan, racing neck and neck around the karting course. And then he thought about every _other_ day of their lives, planning and fighting and risking everything together.

Without the vest, he could have died that morning without saying anything about what that meant to him.

The words seemed to come on their own.

"I do not call many people my friends, and I call fewer my family." He looked to his brothers and Constance, as always. "D'Artagnan is both, and far more besides - he is one of the finest men I have ever known, and I do not tell him that nearly often enough. D'Artagnan, I am proud to call you my brother, and honoured beyond expression that you call me the same. And I am proud _of_ you - of everything you have accomplished, and the man you are. I am proud of you both. When you first met, frankly, I thought one of you would kill the other within a week. My money was on Constance winning."

Laughter burst through the room, and Constance gave d'Artagnan a particularly smug grin. D'Artagnan wasn't looking at her though - he was staring at Athos, an unreadable look on his face. Athos shifted, suddenly uncertain. The words had flowed without thinking, and he now wondered if they were out of place. He ploughed on nonetheless, even though it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.

"But it turns out that you make the perfect team. To have a partner who can challenge you and help you in equal measure, to stand loyally beside you but never be afraid to tell you when you're being an idiot - that is the most valuable thing in the world, and I am delighted that you have both found it. To Constance and d'Artagnan."

He raised his glass, glad to have got to the end of his disorganised speech and have an excuse to drink, downing half the champagne in a single mouthful. He retreated quickly, under the pretence of heading towards the bar, but d'Artagnan had got up and was hurrying over to him.

It was only when they were standing together that Athos realised, with a horrible lurch of his insides, that d'Artagnan's eyes were damp.

Well, he'd definitely ruined the wedding if he'd made the groom cry. Was this something he could blame on being injured? There was a distinct wrongness about the grating in his chest, and his shoulder was aching right at the core. It was surely a good justification for making an idiot of himself, but of course explaining that would just ruin the wedding further and defeat the whole _point_.

He was jolted out of these musings by d'Artagnan's grip on his shoulder. The good one, showing that Athos was occasionally quite lucky.

"You are a great man," d'Artagnan said, his voice low and choked. "Thank you - thank you so much, for what you said. It's me who's honoured, just to know you. I love you, my brother."

Athos searched his face, realising with a sort of warmth that actually he might not have screwed up after all. He smiled - a soft, genuine smile, the sort that the man he could have been if he'd never met Milady might have given all the time.

He'd never said it before - it wasn't in his nature - but then he'd never given a sappy best man speech while defying medical orders before, either.

"And I suppose I love you too, even if you are the whole reason I'm going grey."

D'Artagnan looked like a child who'd just been told every day was going to be Christmas, and it made something inside Athos feel suddenly light, buoyant and proud - but proud, for once, of himself. He'd known d'Artagnan cared about his opinions but he'd never really understood before how much his approval counted for. He'd never really understood how much the lad valued him.

Mind you, if he kept this up much longer he was going to lose absolutely all authority, and possibly also consciousness.

"Get back to your wife and your wedding," he said, pushing rather ineffectually at the young man whose eyes were still huge and watery. "I think I've made your head big enough for one day."

D'Artagnan gave a watery laugh. "Alright. And I won't make you promise to stay because I know you hate things like this, all the dancing and chatting, and I know you're probably going back to work any minute. But thank you, Athos. Thank you for coming - and for... Well, for everything. You've made me who I am."

Athos started to protest, because d'Artagnan was entirely his own person, everything he'd accomplished was his own - but his train of thought was abruptly diverted by the sudden hug d'Artagnan pressed on him. Athos appreciated the sentiment but the sudden pressure on his chest made spots dance in front of his eyes, and he was grateful that it was over quickly. D'Artagnan gave him a firm nod before dashing back to the front of the room.

Porthos was standing up, glass in hand, and from the laughter he'd already started warming up his own speech. No doubt in part to distract from Athos' bout of emotions, which he was fuzzily grateful for. It also gave him an opportunity to turn to Aramis, who had followed them to the bar.

"Aramis."

His friend set down his glass, and scanned Athos over. Athos felt like he'd done pretty well, all things considered, but the suspicion on Aramis' face had only intensified since earlier, and he felt like he was wilting under the attention of an angry teacher.

"Yes?"

"Have you been drinking?"

Aramis looked bemused by the non-sequitur. "Orange juice only 'til after my speech," he said, tapping his glass. "I'm sentimental enough when I'm sober. You _are_ hurt, aren't you?"

Athos beckoned him to follow, and made quietly for the doors. They were speaking quietly and everyone was listening to Porthos' speech, but he hadn't come this far just to fail now. When they were in the corridor, he finally sagged against the wall.

"Can you take me to the hospital?"

Aramis, incredibly, didn't yell. He didn't even say 'I told you so', although the words were playing out across his face so obviously that he didn't need to. Instead, he took the arm that Athos _wasn't_ holding protectively across his body and put it across his own shoulder, carefully supporting Athos' weight. That was good because the combination of an empty stomach and alcohol - an inadvisable one, Athos mused belatedly - was making him feel rather light-headed.

They made their way outside and over to Aramis' car, one of the ones they'd used to get everyone to the church. Aramis set him down in the passenger seat and began assessing him with deft, professional hands. Athos tensed, but Aramis' inspection was quick and gentle; within moments, he'd been strapped in and his arm wrapped to be supported very carefully against his torso. Aramis dashed around the other side, flinging himself in with rather less care, and they were soon moving.

"Why did you do it?" Aramis said. His voice was taut and his hands were gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. He kept shooting glances over at Athos, who might have been tempted to make some comment about Aramis keeping his eyes on the road, except that he knew he couldn't be in safer hands.

"Didn't want to ruin it," Athos mumbled, the pain and wooziness making him unusually frank.

Aramis' face seemed to age right in front of him. The light-hearted joy he'd glowed with, watching the wedding, seemed to have faded, and guilt twisted in Athos' gut. He'd done that.

"Your safety is more important than a wedding, Athos. Your life is worth so much more than any day. D'Artagnan and Constance would never, never have wanted you to do this."

"Doesn't matter," Athos said, and meant it. "They're not going to find out."

Aramis shot him a look. "What?"

"Don't tell him, Aramis. Please."

"Don't tell him you nearly died at his wedding?"

"It's not that bad, don't be melodramatic."

Aramis was still tightly coiled. "It's pretty bad."

"Do you really think I'm at risk of dying?"

"You might kill _me_ if you pull this again."

"You do see the irony in that, don't you?"

"No," Aramis said resolutely. "You do realise that this wouldn't have happened if we'd been with you? We should have been there to have your back."

"The important thing is that d'Artagnan and Constance got the wedding they deserved - a day entirely for them, where, for once, nothing went wrong. They deserve that, and I won't be the one to take it from them."

Aramis gave a heartfelt sigh. His fingers relaxed the tiniest degree from their death grip on the wheel, and he seemed to remember that the car had both a brake and lower gears. "It scares me when your explanations are almost rational."

"I'm always rational, Aramis."

"Is that why you spent two hundred euro on a new suit only to go and miss half of the wedding? The best half, I might add, when there's dancing and beautiful young women."

Athos snorted, and immediately regretted it when his ribs moved. "Do you really think you would have a chance with any of the women Constance is friends with?" he asked, slightly breathless.

"No," Aramis conceded, "but it would have been fun trying."

"And it would have been fun watching."

"At least your suit is nice, isn't it?"

Athos didn't have the energy to lie. "Yes, fine, it's a good suit. I admit defeat."

"You were going to go back to work, weren't you?"

"Why does everyone keep saying that? I never said I was planning to leave early."

"We know you, Athos. Sappy music and slow dancing into the night aren't really your style."

"I don't dance."

"Exactly."

"Want me to dance at your wedding?"

"What?"

"If you get married, I'll give you a dance."

Aramis gave him an incredulous look. "Oh, is it moral to take that as a promise when you're tipsy and hurt? I so hope it is."

Athos huffed out a breath, the best he could do by way of laughing without shifting his ribs, and closed his eyes. He hadn't been to many weddings, but he'd _liked_ that one. Nothing complicated, but it was all so sincere - he'd never see two people so in love as Constance and d'Artagnan. Maybe the excitement wouldn't last forever, but that affection would.

"They're going to be really happy together," he said, content and quite at peace, despite the pain.

Aramis snorted. "I told you - I knew it."

"Knew what?"

"Helping with the proposal, organising the stag party, making sure the wedding goes ahead when they never even knew it was under threat - you are an old romantic, aren't you?"

Athos adopted as dignified an expression as he could, under the circumstances. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you don't."

So, admittedly, he spent the second half of d'Artagnan's wedding in the emergency room with Aramis. But the series of texts they got from Porthos, once Aramis had updated him, showed that it went just as well as the first half. He sent them a series of pictures - the hall, filled with dancers; Porthos' plate, no doubt groaning under the weight of food; Constance and d'Artagnan holding each other, laughing at something or everything, lost in each other.

Aramis could tell him off as much as he liked, but Athos had kept his promise. It had gone a bit wonky, but he'd done it; he'd given the Musketeers - his little brother - a day of peace.


	15. Queen and Knight

_(A/N: I might be starting to sound like a broken record, but you guys are awesome. To have people read their way through all of this and, in many cases, to take the time to post such lovely reviews makes me genuinely happy, so thank you all. It's been ages since the last story, I know - such time as I've had for writing lately has been going into my efforts to write my own book, but who could help coming back to the Musketeers now and then?_

 _There's a little less bromance and more romance in this one, because I wanted to give Anne and Aramis a chance at love without the whole treason issue. But Athos lends a hand, as ever.)_

* * *

Her name was Anne, and Aramis knew it was a bad idea from the start.

As he always did, Aramis ignored the voice of reason and followed his heart anyway.

The trouble was that he'd been fascinated from the moment he first saw her. It had been years ago, after Savoy but before d'Artagnan joined them, and Louis had been parading his new young wife around the precinct like a king showing off a palace he'd had nothing to do with building. He remembered standing up with the others as Anne and Louis came over, remembered the three of them being introduced as the best of the Musketeers. Anne had stepped closer to shake his hand, and laughed when Aramis kissed her hand instead.

Perhaps he adored her a little from that moment, when a brilliant light eclipsed the sadness in her eyes.

He wondered even then if she was happy to be married to Louis, but it was just one encounter and even Aramis didn't really believe in love at first sight - not enough to act on it, not with someone who was married. He would probably have been able to look on it fondly as a fleeting affection, his reaction to meeting such a beautiful woman, if that had been the last of it.

But Anne took an interest in the Musketeers that was far more sincere than her husband's - whose role as the nominal head of the Musketeers Athos had only ever been able to explain as 'politics' - and came back alone several times to learn about what they did. In the process, she formed a bond with Constance that was all the more powerful and terrifying for how quickly it happened, and theirs became one of the more formidable friendships Aramis had ever seen. And that was coming from someone who was important to Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan.

But Anne always had time for the rest of them, to perch on the edge of their desks when they were idle and ask how they were. She wanted to be useful, too, to help even if it was just with paperwork, with an eagerness that screamed of someone who wasn't being allowed to show what she could be capable of.

Most of all, Aramis might never have fallen so hard if they hadn't started going to lunch or dinner now and then. The whole lot of them, all the people Aramis cared about - Anne, Constance, Athos, Porthos and Treville, and d'Artagnan when he joined the Musketeers. If Aramis hadn't had that opportunity to see how sharp she was, how clever and quick with a joke, how she could hold her own against all of them while retaining that other-worldly grace, how she never asked for their respect or loyalty but it was impossible not to give it anyway...

And then came the day when only Anne, Athos and Aramis had been around for dinner, but Athos had been called back into a meeting with Treville after they arrived at the restaurant, and Aramis learned for the first time what it was to be the centre of Anne's attention and begin to learn her secrets. To know that her whole marriage had been political too, and how desperately lonely she had been for such a long time.

It was no great secret that Aramis had been in many relationships. It wasn't like he was frivolous about it; that was the problem, really. He gave them all a piece of his heart, big or small. Sometimes he wondered how he had anything left, but there was always more to give.

And then there was Anne, and he gave her all of it.

They went back to his place, and that night was like nothing he'd ever known. Afterwards, lying beside her with her fingers trailing lightly over his skin, her face glowing in the moonlight, Aramis began to understand that this was different. This was more than he'd ever had before.

Not long afterwards, the news leaked around the office that Anne and Louis were in the middle of a particularly messy divorce. It was one of those things that no one apparently talked about, but the details were known throughout the building.

The proceedings stretched out for months. Louis showed up around the precinct more and more, always storming about and exploding furiously at innocent bystanders. Treville was generally with him, though whether because that was his job or to stop Louis firing everyone it was difficult to say, and he seemed to be going greyer by the day. Louis had banned Anne from the premises which no one was sure he could actually do, but as far as Aramis knew she never tried to get in.

And she stopped answering her phone. The night they'd shared together was the last he saw or heard from her for months, as she pulled away from them all just when she must have needed them more than ever. Confused and with a strangely broken feeling he'd never known before, Aramis sought out Constance, the only one Anne stayed in touch with - only for her to tell him that Anne simply needed time.

Time. Aramis understood and didn't push, because it must be immensely painful to untangle even an unhappy marriage from her life, but time stretched on and _he missed her_.

Every other time a relationship had ended, Aramis had moved on. It often took a lot of time, alcohol and stubborn friends, but he did. This time, he couldn't bring himself to try, to go out and meet someone new. Only pain lay behind the thought of trying and he didn't want to ask himself why that was, why she mattered more than anyone had before. He threw himself into his work - and tried to smile when she finally started visiting the office again and only went to lunch with Constance.

If d'Artagnan and Porthos noticed, they didn't say anything. Athos was the only one who knew they'd been to dinner alone that night and Aramis had long wondered if he suspected more, and became sure of it when he would catch the way Athos looked at him when Anne laughed across the precinct, never close enough to talk to. (He didn't say anything, but he did take to showing up at Aramis' flat the evenings after Anne had been in the office, with a six pack of beer and a selection of action movies, and that was better than talking.)

And then everything changed again, in the run up to d'Artagnan and Constance's wedding.

It was probably his own fault, but could he be blamed for his knowledge about flowers and clothes? A thorough understanding of floral arrangements came with the territory of wooing women, and the impeccable dress sense was something he'd been born with. He'd offered his help to Constance, part of which involved dragging the other two groomsmen out for what he considered to have been an excellent day's shopping, even if his subjects were less convinced.

It was just two days before the hasty wedding, when the venues had been booked and nothing else, that he showed up at her door. Constance wanted the marriage not the wedding, but Aramis couldn't help finessing a few details - he'd spent much of the day talking to caterers about exactly how last minute orders could be, and come round to discuss his findings with Constance.

But the door was opened by Anne, and Aramis forgot how to breathe.

He wondered, for a panicked second, if he should leave - but he couldn't have stepped away even if he'd wanted to. He felt like he was caught in her orbit, inextricably, even if it was a ridiculously soppy thought. But she'd smiled, for once nervous and shy, and said how good it was to see him again.

It might have been the day after they'd slept together, because the time in between suddenly stopped mattering at all.

He ended up sitting on the sofa between Anne and Constance, laptop on his legs to show them the caterers he'd found, all the while aware of Anne beside him as though she was the only light in the world. Her nearness seemed to electrify his skin.

The strangest thing was how quickly it became natural again. They chose a caterer and ordered flowers and Anne persuaded an unusually bashful Constance to show him how stunning she looked in the dress they'd just bought. While she was changing back, Anne explained that they'd been going to spend the afternoon making the wedding cake, and she'd like it if he joined them, if he wanted to.

Aramis had never been much of a baker, but he could be converted if it was always like that. He flicked chocolate chips at Anne and she rubbed flour into his hair; they bickered like children while Constance laughed at them. Anne told him about the last few months while they cracked eggs, about leaving Louis and losing her home, but enrolling back on the law course she'd had to abandon for her marriage. From Constance's proud smile he wondered if this was the first time she'd spoken about it so lightly. They heaped cake mix into tins and drank wine while it was baking, relaxing on the sofa with a romantic comedy playing while the sun set.

It was when Constance left the room to answer her phone that Aramis realised he was watching Anne rather than the film.

"What is it?" she asked, meeting his eyes, bright and fearless as ever.

Aramis' heart ached, but he had to ask - even if she gave the answer he was afraid of.

"Do you regret it? What happened between us?"

Anne reached out towards him slowly. There was such a fragility about her sometimes, and it hurt him for reasons he couldn't explain - but when her fingers brushed along his jaw, feather-light, his breath caught in his throat.

"I could never regret you, Aramis."

Sitting there in the half-light, flour in his hair and something fiery in his chest, Aramis felt like he was on the precipice of something beautifully, exquisitely new.

But he didn't move, didn't try to kiss her. Somehow the moment was more than that. For the first time in all the times he'd given part of himself away, he realised that this was what he wanted forever. To just be with her, to see the self she showed the world and the one that she only revealed with friends, how her silliness and playfulness were just as much who she was as grace and dignity.

And after the wedding, when he walked into the reception behind the newlyweds, Anne gave him a smile radiant as the sun and all for him, and reached out to take his hand.

Aramis felt like he must be shining as brightly as her, as clearly as Constance and d'Artagnan. His mind was full of asking her to dance, an excuse to hold her close.

But that could never come before his brothers, and he ended up with Athos in the hospital instead. His elation was overtaken by a worry that was deep enough to fill the ocean because why couldn't his brother ever see how much he was worth, how important he was to the rest of them?

Thoughts of Anne fled his mind entirely as he hounded the poor nurses, not relenting until one grew frustrated enough to simply hand over the chart to let him see for himself. It was only then that Aramis could relax even a fraction - it did look like Athos was alright, or would be, if he rested and didn't aggravate his ribs.

Aramis glared at his brother, who cut a sorry looking picture as he sat propped up on the bed, still wearing his rumpled suit trousers and shirt, tie hanging loose around his neck and one arm expertly bound against his chest.

"You _are_ going to rest," he said firmly, speaking with the confidence of one who was going to make the future the way he wanted it. "Two days at home, no negotiation."

Athos looked affronted, which Aramis felt like he shouldn't be able to do when he was on strong painkillers. "I can't do that."

"You really can. I know you have a lot of leave you never use, and even if you're so determined to keep d'Artagnan from finding out, you do remember that he and Constance are going on their honeymoon, don't you? I am a wordsmith, my dear Athos, I only had to talk about him boating along the canals of Venice with his wife for two minutes before he booked a hotel. He's got a poet's soul."

"You're trying to distract me so I agree with you," Athos said, giving up the slow battle to sit up and falling back into the pillows.

"No, I'm trying to distract you because I'm nice and you're in pain. Your agreement is not required."

He did enjoy showing Athos the photos Porthos sent over, after explaining the situation and asking Porthos not to tell d'Artagnan (this was typed alongside a lot of eye roll emoticons). But, after Athos fell into a doze and the adrenaline crash left Aramis slumped in the chair beside his bed, he received another series of photographs - this time, from Anne.

Each time his phone buzzed, there was another beautiful image waiting for him. They captured the same night as Porthos' but were entirely different - Anne sent him pictures of the lights, glowing soft and gold; a close up of the cake, with their careful decoration; the hem of Constance's dress, trailing against d'Artagnan's polished shoes; one of the flowers Aramis had chosen cradled in Anne's hand.

It was around midnight when he saw that last one. Aramis was sitting in a quiet hospital room, exhausted and uncomfortable, when he _realised_.

"Oh," he said, staring at his phone.

"What?"

Aramis' head shot up. Athos was watching him, frowning. His gaze was clear and not too pained - in itself that wiped away half of Aramis' stress and eased his headache. He relied on Athos' strength and clarity every day, and the way he'd zoned in and out on the way to the hospital had been enough to give Aramis a breakdown.

"You're supposed to be asleep."

"I was asleep. Now I'm awake."

"You're a jerk," Aramis corrected, but there was no heat in it.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Athos' eyes narrowed. "Try again."

"Well, my boss is a moron," he said, with absolute sincerity. "You do realise how stupid that was, don't you?"

"I was with about two dozen other officers," Athos pointed out. "It's not like I went in alone."

"Yeah, but you didn't have _us_ ," Aramis said mulishly.

Athos rolled his eyes, and even lying down and being petulant he seemed to have a dignity Aramis could never have affected. "Not that I doubt your concern or your affection, but I don't think it's my condition that had you looking at your phone like it just performed a miracle."

"No, well..." Aramis trailed off. Even as he thought about his epiphany again, his heart started racing; he felt strange, kind of buoyant and electrified.

Athos reached out to grip his knee, looking concerned. "Aramis?"

"I'm in love with her."

Athos blinked. "I think I've missed something."

"Anne." Aramis showed him the photo, as if it could hope to explain what he was thinking. "I'm in love with her."

"Ah." Athos was quiet for a moment, and settled down into the pillows - even closing his eyes, apparently unbothered by the chaos in Aramis' head. "I'm glad you've finally realised."

Aramis gaped, totally caught off guard. "What?"

Athos cracked one eye open to look at him balefully. "Haven't you been in love with her for the last two years?"

"I..."

Had he? Aramis thought about secret smiles and the warmth of her hand in his, of pressing kisses into her skin and how she was always on his mind. He thought about her in a beautiful dress and her with chocolate on her face, of the way his heart always leapt when she caught his eye across the precinct. Of how he'd always known this was more, but never realised why.

"I've never been in love before."

Athos had given up pretending to be sleepy, and was watching him with a knowing look. "I think you loved the others in a way, but no, I don't think you have. I've never seen you like this about anyone except her."

"I'm an idiot."

"For a lot of reasons," Athos agreed, "but apparently we all like you anyway. I've never been quite sure why."

Aramis snorted, and the hand on his knee gripped tighter.

"Are you alright?"

Was he alright? Aramis felt like he was on fire. He _had_ been in love with her, all this time, even when he shouldn't have been - but now she was single, and she'd looked at him like that after the wedding...

"Do you think she might love me too?"

Athos looked at him in that way he had where his eyes seemed to smile without his mouth moving at all; it was a look that said he had seen everything Aramis was and was never going to leave. "She'd be an even bigger fool than you if she didn't. And Anne is not a fool, Aramis."

"Oh," he said again, the word as big and awed as it had been the first time.

Athos patted his leg. "I'm sorry you didn't get to dance with her tonight."

"I'm not," Aramis said, gripping Athos' hand tightly. "I wish you didn't go around getting yourself hurt like a martyr and I wish you'd realise how much you matter, but I'll always be here when you need me. In the next few days, I think I'll be around rather more than you want. But there'll be another night to ask her to dance, to find out if she... if she loves me back. I might not have realised how I felt if I hadn't been away from her tonight."

"So it was a good idea on my part after all, then?"

Aramis scowled, and poked his brother reprovingly on the nose, delighting in the violated glare it won him. "Don't push your luck."

An hour later, when Athos was deeply asleep and the lights were dimmed, Aramis went to the window and phoned Anne. She answered quickly, and Aramis' heart leapt.

"Aramis." His name sounded beautiful in her voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes. It's alright - I'll explain soon. Thank you for the pictures. The last one especially, I really liked it."

He could hear her smile in her voice. "I'm glad. I missed you tonight. I've missed you for a long time." She hesitated, and he could hear music playing in the background. "I'm sorry, Aramis. I pushed you away, and it wasn't fair. I needed to find my own way for a while, to work out who I was without Louis and my parents telling me what I had to do - but I should have told you that. I don't know why I didn't."

"It's alright," Aramis said, and meant it with all he had. "You did what you needed to, don't apologise for that. I'd wait as long as you wanted me to."

He glanced over at Athos and then out of the window again, and thought about love and family and how right it felt when he had all of them around him. It gave him courage.

"Would you like to join me for dinner next week?"

Her laugh was the best sound he knew. "I'd love to."


	16. Broken Glass

_(A/N: It's been a while, I know! You will note from this chapter that I've wantonly borrowed from a particular episode of the Musketeers. It's one I liked but felt like the most dramatic part was somewhat glossed over in the aftermath, so I've decided to play with it myself. Once again, I hope you will excuse any plot holes you find - I'm in this for the brotherhood!_

 _I know I'm consistently useless at replying to reviews (I'm going to work on this!), but please know that I read and love them all. It's very special to be able to come back and remind myself that people like the weirdness that I put up here. I hope this one delivers too! I've outdone myself with the length again, at any rate._ _)_

* * *

The building was eerily quiet.

D'Artagnan leaned against the roof of his car, and considered the hotel on the other side of the wide street. It looked like it had been a grand building once - he wasn't sure it was actually very old but it was built to look like it was with a stone facade, arched windows and balconies outside some of the rooms. But it had, according to the sign on the temporary metal fence around it, been closed for over a year since the owner had gone into liquidation, and they hadn't yet managed to sell the building off. A few of the windows were smashed, though someone had made a half-hearted effort at boarding a couple up again. What had probably once been a pristine garden out the front had spilled out of its flowerbeds, low plants and bushes growing together in a wild tangle, while weeds had started to climb up the walls.

Most significantly, there were no cars visible on the street except d'Artagnan's and one further down the road, outside a boarded up shop, which was resting on bricks rather than wheels.

Frowning, he opened Athos' text again. In his usual style, it was brief and wasted no energy on pleasantries. It was just this address, on the outskirts of the city, and a succinct sentence explaining that their suspect had been located and d'Artagnan was to meet the others there. He'd expected Athos at least to already be waiting, but he wasn't about to head in without him and risk blowing their first real lead in the case. Instead, he sent off a quick message to confirm that he was waiting, and settled in to watch for movement.

Louis, the official head of the Musketeers, always received a certain level of threats over social media, phone and email. But things had stepped up lately, with a chain of increasingly violent messages that seemed to be connected, sent through voice modulated calls and emails bounced between too many locations to track. Even that might have been a low level problem, but Louis was also convinced he was being followed. He insisted he'd seen the same man several times; outside headquarters, looking through the window of a restaurant he was eating in, even across the road from his house. Despite that, he hadn't been able to offer a better description than 'a blonde male between twenty five and forty five'.

Still, the Musketeers ultimately worked for Louis and when he insisted that Athos take on the case himself, he got what he wanted.

It was actually his team's day off, but one of the techs must have managed to trace the signal, and Louis wouldn't be pleased if they left it to anyone else to track down the suspect just because they were meant to be off duty.

When he'd first joined the Musketeers, d'Artagnan probably would have rushed into the building alone, without worrying about the potential implications. Now, though, he knew that it was wiser to wait for his brothers, and that he _could_. He didn't have to prove his courage or strength to anyone, he could afford to make the responsible choice.

That was, at least, until he heard the scream.

D'Artagnan was moving before his mind caught up to his body. He slowed down only long enough to send off another text back to Athos, telling him he was going in hot, before dropping the phone into his pocket and reaching reflexively for his gun. It had been a man's scream, sudden and hoarse and abruptly cut off, and it had definitely come from the hotel.

For stealth, he ought to go in the back, but he just couldn't risk the time. He crossed the road, constantly scanning the door and windows of the hotel, and was prepared to leap the fence when he realised that the lock had been cut, the heavy-duty padlock chucked carelessly onto the path. It raised about every alarm he had, and d'Artagnan lifted his gun in one hand as he pushed on the gate with the other. The front doors were unlocked, too, when he tried them carefully, and he stepped into the foyer beyond.

It looked deserted. There was something eerie about the tall, open space, with the abandoned reception desk and chairs to his right, a bar to his left, and the grand staircase straight ahead. The staircase led, by the looks of things, to a door leading to the first floor and then twisted to continue up to the second, and the height of the entry hall meant he could see all the way up to the second floor landing. But he couldn't see anyone on any of the levels, even as his senses strained for the slightest hint of movement.

And then he heard a muffled cry of pain, coming from higher up - and then a creaking hinge, right behind him.

D'Artagnan spun round, gun raised and entirely ready to shoot - but he tore it away immediately, heart racing.

"Don't _do_ that!" he whispered furiously. "I could have shot you."

"What did you want us to do, knock?" Porthos said, but he tapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder reassuringly as he entered.

"Not terribly discreet," Aramis agreed in a murmur, closing the door with nothing but a faint click behind them. His face was a lot more serious than his words. "What do you think?"

"Upstairs," he said. "I heard something."

"Hmm." Porthos' eyes were narrowed as he surveyed the foyer. "This looks like a great place to get caught out in, don't you think?"

"You reckon it's a trap?"

"I'm just sayin' it's a bit convenient."

Aramis glanced back at the door. "Where's Athos? From his message, I thought he'd already be here."

Another cry from upstairs. They exchanged a look, and started forwards. Everything they said made sense, d'Artagnan knew, but they couldn't do anything but go on if someone was in danger.

Someone else called out, a muffled sound - but this time it was coming from nearer by, from one of the doors on the ground floor. Porthos gestured them towards the stairs. "You two go up. I'll take this one."

They parted ways, d'Artagnan leading the way up the staircase. He hesitated on the first landing but Aramis tapped his own chest and pointed to the door, gesturing d'Artagnan upwards. He nodded, and continued up alone.

He was glad to know the others were in the building too, but he still felt a flicker of trepidation as he started down the second floor corridor. Something about this wasn't right, was tugging at his gut. They'd assumed they were only after one person, but there had been at least two voices, and why choose somewhere as ostentatious as an abandoned hotel to send your threats from? This must have been bigger than they'd expected.

And no sooner had he thought that than two doors opened, one on either side of the corridor, and four men stepped out. They were dressed strangely, all hooded and cloaked in dark robes, and all held a gun pointed straight at him. Even as d'Artagnan levelled his own gun in return he knew it was pointless, that there was nothing he could do, but also that if they'd intended to kill him straight away he would already be dead.

"D'Artagnan of the Musketeers," one said, lowering his gun and smiling a cold, dead sort of smile. "Welcome. I am Marmion, and you have come far enough."

D'Artagnan swung his own weapon around, pointing it at Marmion, but the man just stared at him calmly. In the silence, he heard a loud thud somewhere below, and a very familiar voice bellowing out.

He almost shouted for Porthos, but caught himself in time. Marmion seemed to guess anyway.

"It's alright, your friends will be joining us soon. Back towards the stairs, if you please, and give my man your gun. You wouldn't live long enough to shoot twice."

Parting with it felt like willingly giving up his only chance, but there was nothing for it - Marmion was right, and his best chance of getting out of this one was to play along for now. He, Aramis and Porthos had clearly walked right into a trap; his job now was to get them all out before Athos arrived and was ensnared as well.

The cries had been part of the trap, he realised belatedly, meant to draw them in then split them up, and Marmion knew his name. This was all meant for them.

"What's going on?" he asked as the nearest man roughly grabbed his gun, and let himself be shoved back down the corridor. "Who are you?"

"I told you, my name is Marmion," the cool voice replied. "And I have been waiting for this for a long time."

D'Artagnan emerged back out onto the landing, and swore mentally. Porthos was standing near the main doors again, radiating fury, with guns trained on him as well. There were perhaps a dozen people down there now, all in the same cult-like robes, arrayed around the edge of the room. Aramis was nowhere to be seen, and d'Artagnan had a burst of hope that he'd got away before the first floor doors flew open and Aramis sprinted through. He was closely pursued by a man who, to d'Artagnan's satisfaction, was trying to stem the blood from a clearly broken nose as he ran.

Aramis took the stairs up two at a time, and aimed his gun at Marmion even before he stopped moving. "Let him go."

Marmion raised his eyebrows. "Aramis, I believe? You are sorely outnumbered, Musketeer, I suggest you consider your position. At my merest command, or the second you pull that trigger, my companions will kill your friends. Do you want that on your conscience?"

Aramis caught d'Artagnan's eye, questioning, and d'Artagnan gave a mute shake of his head. No, he didn't have a plan or any back up ideas, not yet, nothing except to play for time. Aramis let his grip go slack, and the man he'd hurt grabbed it and shoved him none too gently towards the wall.

Play for time. The mantra looped around in d'Artagnan's head.

"What do you want?" he demanded, drawing Marmion's attention back to himself. "You sent those messages to Louis, didn't you, to lure us here?"

"You're a sharp one," Marmion said, but there was no emotion in his voice, not even a patronising edge to give it life. "Yes. Think of this as the beginning of the end. You will be the first to die, and the rest of your people will follow."

"The Musketeers?" D'Artagnan stared at him, bemused. "You think you can kill all the Musketeers?"

"You're mad," Aramis said, sounding almost sympathetic. "Even if you managed to kill us, what good would it do? The rest of them would have you dead before you could blink."

"Oh, I don't think so. You will all fall, and Louis will watch everything he built fall down around him."

"Louis?" D'Artagnan's mind raced. So it really was about him after all? He highly doubted Marmion was the man's real name but he did fit Louis' vague description of the man he'd seen; so would a great deal of other men, admittedly, but he could feel the pieces slotting into place. "What do you mean? Why are you doing this?"

"Louis is the reason my family is dead," Marmion snarled, and there was something deadly lending to his eyes. "I want him to suffer as I have suffered. But he cares for nothing beyond himself, not even the woman he was married to. If his work is his life then I will take that from him, piece by piece, and I will start with you. The very finest of his warriors - and yet I have led you here, and this is where you will die. And I will make sure to bring about the end of the Musketeers."

Marmion had sent the texts. D'Artagnan didn't know how and didn't have time to wonder, but the realisation was like ice trickling through his body. Athos hadn't texted any of them, it had been Marmion, the whole thing had been a set up right from the start. Did Athos even know they were here? Or had Marmion sent a message to him too, using d'Artagnan's own number, or Aramis' or Porthos'? They had been trapped so easily, hadn't seen it coming.

But Marmion was still wrong, and he was angry - angry at Marmion, angry at himself - and the anger lent him reckless strength.

"You can't end the Musketeers," he said scornfully. Even as Marmion opened his mouth to argue, d'Artagnan cut him off. "The Musketeers wouldn't end with this institution, nor would it die with us. It's an idea, an ideal to strive for, an ethos to live by. That isn't the kind of thing you can end. It's the kind of thing that outlives everyone, survives centuries. You can't kill people's idea of the way they want the world to be. That's what we stand for, but it doesn't end with us."

Maybe he ought to be afraid but all he could find was anger and determination. It was its own sort of strength, the depth of his belief in what he'd said; he knew he was doing something with his life that was utterly worth doing, and nothing could shake that.

Marmion's impassive mask was cracking. He looked like he might abandon the gun and just strangle d'Artagnan. "What is any of it worth? All of you are a handful of personal crises and breakdowns strung together with a prayer. Look at them," he said, gesturing across the landing at Aramis, whose face was carefully calm and resolute as he held Marmion's gaze, and Porthos downstairs, trapped in place. "One still trapped in his head, running from ghosts and his own memories. Another who remains no better than the filth he was raised in. Your dear captain who couldn't save his own brother, who spent half his life needing alcohol to even get out of bed. And you, barely more than a child, getting by because others cover for your weakness. None of you should be trusted with the defence of this city. My father knew Louis, years ago, and when my family were in danger I begged him for help, but he was too busy. Too busy to lift a finger to help them - and little good it would have done, when men like you were all he had to offer."

D'Artagnan's anger had turned so deep that it twisted in on itself, passed right through hot and came out as burning cold. He wanted to hurt Marmion, wanted to turn that pain back on him, because _he had no right._

"You do not speak of them like that," he said, low and dangerous. "You do not get to cheapen what they have endured. They've been through hells of their own and come out still prepared to fight and die to protect other people, to give every day of their lives in defence of strangers who'll never even know their names. I am sorry, for what you have lost, but do not blame them for it. Every Musketeer would be prepared to lay down their own life for another's."

"There will be no Musketeers!" Marmion bellowed, stepping so close that his face was mere inches from d'Artagnan's, and now there was emotion at last - a deep, terrible hatred. It was in that moment that d'Artagnan knew it was no use trying to talk their way out of this, that they were running out of time. Marmion didn't have enough sanity left to be persuaded - he was a man driven by the single task he had chosen for the remainder of his life.

"Have some compassion," Aramis' voice came from across the landing. "Let him go. He's never done anything to you."

Marmion stepped back and d'Artagnan shot a glare at Aramis, trying to convey without words that he knew what Aramis was doing - he was trying to get Marmion away from d'Artagnan, bringing the danger to himself, and d'Artagnan hated it.

"Compassion?" Marmion echoed, treading softly across the carpet towards Aramis, who was standing with his back to a window.

The instant d'Artagnan realised what was about to happen, it was already too late to stop it. Marmion surged forwards towards Aramis who had his hands up, unarmed and clearly not expecting this; Marmion slammed into him, both hands pushing on Aramis' chest with force he wasn't braced for.

Aramis flew backwards, feet losing purchase on the ground, and crashed into the window.

The glass shattered. It was something d'Artagnan would remember all his life - the sound of breaking glass, the blank look of shock on Aramis' face, the terrible curve of his body as he fell backwards out of the window.

He didn't make a sound as he fell until there was an awful, final crash.

D'Artagnan's ears were ringing. His blood was pounding too loudly, he was breathing too quickly. There was a sense of unreality about it - this couldn't just have happened, there was no way, he couldn't have let the world go so terribly wrong.

 _"ARAMIS!"_ The cry was terrible, so full of pain and rage, like the roar of a wounded animal. There was shouting, cries of pain, the sound of a struggle - Porthos was downstairs, had seen the whole thing, was fighting the men around him heedless of their weapons. _"You bastard, I'll kill you!"_

It jerked d'Artagnan out of his stupor and he flung his arm out, catching the nearest man in the face with his elbow. He fought with quick, vicious blows, not caring about the ones that struck him in return, relishing them as a distraction because if he was fighting for his life then he couldn't afford to _think_ \- to think about the fact that this was the end, it was all already over, because the world couldn't possibly go on with the absence of even one of his brothers.

But there were too many for him to take alone, and he caught sight of four or five men all converging on Porthos, and then a fist caught him in the temple, and one in the stomach, and for a while the world was just dusty carpeted floor and flashing lights in his head.

He drifted. He didn't know how long it was before awareness returned to him, but he came to slumped against the floor. Porthos was shouting for him, and he squinted through the pain to see him struggling against all the men holding him back, still trying to force his way free.

A hand gripped his hair, pulling him painfully up to his knees. Marmion was bleeding from the temple - d'Artagnan must have got a good few blows in after all. He felt a surge of pride in that, that his brothers' teaching had turned out so well.

Marmion looked at him with hatred. "Your turn," he said, and raised his gun.

There was nowhere left to go, no chance to fight. Marmion had been right after all - this was the end of the Musketeers, at least for him.

 _Aramis was dead_.

D'Artagnan spat at Marmion's feet, only realising his mouth was cut when red splashed on the man's shoes. It hardly mattered now. He glared up at Marmion, determined to be defiant until the end.

There was a sudden, echoing sound and then Marmion was falling, blood spattering against the wall, and he hit the ground with a dull thud.

Instinct took over, which was just as well. D'Artagnan dropped low and scrambled over to the body, seizing Marmion's gun from his limp hand, pausing to check for a pulse that was no longer there as he passed. He crawled over to the scant shelter offered by the marble columns supporting the banister. Weapon reassuring in his hand, he chanced a look down the stairs.

Athos was in the foyer, gun raised and bellowing for Marmion's people to stand down. Musketeers were pouring into the hotel around him, surrounding the dark robed men and women; some dropped their guns, others fired towards the Musketeers but were taken down by return fire. It was only taking seconds for Athos to get control of the room, the Musketeers responding immediately to his command and Marmion's people falling out of order with their leader dead on the landing.

But d'Artagnan took it all it with only a professional detachment, because every active part of his mind was focused on the figure leaning against the doorway, gun still half-raised, looking straight up at d'Artagnan.

 _Aramis._

It would have been an impossible shot for most men, at that angle and distance, with d'Artagnan so close to Marmion - but Aramis could have made it.

Aramis had made it.

He didn't understand, but there wasn't time. There was the job - he always had to do his job. There were footsteps in the corridor behind him, hurrying off deeper into the hotel. The men he'd fought with, who'd been standing behind him when Marmion went to shoot him, were fleeing now that the tables had turned against them.

"Up here!" D'Artagnan bellowed, and sprinted off after them. He felt terrified and elated all at once, the awful, aching grief in his gut somehow co-existing with this impossible hope. He knew what he'd seen, had always trusted his senses even with pain pounding through his head, but the part of him that would always carry his father's last moments couldn't quite believe Aramis had survived.

The three men were heading for a back staircase, and they were too far ahead; the door had swung shut behind them well before d'Artagnan reached it. But to his surprise, when he flung it open they were right in front of him, running back up the flight they'd just descended. He didn't understand until he heard familiar voices below, heard Constance shouting orders to her unit of Musketeers, and he was grinning wildly as he smashed his fist into the jaw of the nearest man.

By the time he, Constance and the others had subdued all three men, in a fight that took them across two flights of stairs and half a corridor, d'Artagnan's hands were aching as much as his head and the adrenaline had thoroughly worn off. He felt like finding the nearest room and curling up to sleep, unpleasant as the beds in this hotel had to be by now.

 _Aramis._

Leaving Constance with nothing more than a kiss pressed quickly to her forehead, he started to walk, then run, back towards the main entrance. He ran like he was still in the middle of a battle, not slowing until he reached the top of the stairs again. His boots crunched over broken glass, and he stopped abruptly.

Sharp edges of glass were still sticking out of the frame. D'Artagnan stuck his head out gingerly, feeling a brush of cool wind, and looked down.

There was a balcony one story down, visible now through the huge hole ripped in its protective canopy. There was what looked like the remains of a plastic table and sun lounger, now lying in pieces and scattered with glass shards and drops of blood.

It wasn't as far as he'd thought - but it was far enough. He could have died if he'd landed badly, if the canopy and plastic furniture hadn't broken his fall, if it had been metal instead, if he'd caught his head on the railing. Even when he was getting pushed out of windows Aramis was the luckiest man d'Artagnan knew. But it must have _hurt_ , that impact, and going through and landing on all that glass, and d'Artagnan thought with a burst of unusual vitriol that he wished Marmion was still alive to push him through as well.

When he reached the top of the grand staircase, the foyer was a kind of organised chaos. Those who had survived among Marmion's followers were being led out of the building in handcuffs, or on stretchers carried by paramedics and Musketeer guards. How were they all here so fast, so much backup and even ambulances? His brothers were nowhere to be seen, and d'Artagnan raced down the stairs and grabbed the first Musketeer he saw.

"Aramis," he said, breathless and probably more than a little manic. "Have you seen Aramis?"

Pierre - it was Pierre, he was going to have to apologise for this later - pointed immediately towards the reception desk, and d'Artagnan ducked around a group of people to get a better look.

Aramis was sitting on the edge of a sofa, bent forwards with his arms resting on his legs, hands over his face. D'Artagnan hurried forwards, all but falling to his knees in front of Aramis.

"Are you alright?" he said urgently, and then stopped short at the ridiculousness of the question.

"I'm alright," Aramis said, raising his head. His voice sounded ragged and exhausted, but he smiled all the same."I'm not dead, at least, and that's something."

D'Artagnan laughed, even though it wasn't really funny; relief was breaking like a tide around him. He gripped Aramis' hand and felt a new strength as he got to his feet, looking over at Aramis' still hunched over back. His jacket was torn in several places, and peppered with small pieces of glass that must have poked right through to his skin. It was in his hair, too, small shards caught in his curls and thin tracks of blood trailing down his neck. The bruising was going to be awful, no wonder he was sitting so still.

"The paramedics are here," he said, looking back into the chaos, keeping a tight hold on Aramis - which of them he was trying to keep grounded, he wasn't even sure. "I'll find one-"

"The others first," Aramis said. "I just - I need to see them, before I go to the hospital."

"Yeah." D'Artagnan's voice was hoarse as he turned back to study Aramis again, and he thought about Aramis standing in the hotel doorway, shooting Marmion to save d'Artagnan's life. It had been unbearable, thinking he'd just seen Aramis die, but Aramis must have actually lowered himself down the outside of the building somehow, had a desperate, excruciating race to the main doors, thinking he was too late to help until he met Athos and the reinforcements.

Speaking of which - "How did Athos know we'd need back up?" he wondered aloud.

"Your texts."

"God, Athos, get a bell, won't you?" Aramis sounded put-upon, but there was something brilliant shining in his eyes as Athos sat next to him.

"I'll get one the day you stop giving me heart attacks," Athos said, and he sounded as measured and calm as he always did. But there was something much less controlled in the way he shifted closer and gripped Aramis' leg, let Aramis lean his weight against him and cast a troubled eye over his friend's back. "I arrived just in time to see you coming out of the window, so I think you'll be waiting a very long time."

They were all going to have some new shadows in their minds from this one. D'Artagnan watched as Aramis relaxed into Athos - as much as he could, at any rate, because his back was still rigid with pain.

"What about my texts?" d'Artagnan said, meeting Athos' eyes and seeing the same what-ifs haunting him.

"I've been talking to Porthos - it would appear that we were all sent texts, apparently from each other, to lure us here. I was on my way here but when you texted to tell me you were waiting outside the hotel, you said you'd got my message. I knew I hadn't texted you - and then you said you were going in alone and I knew you wouldn't do that unless you had to. I just had a feeling, I suppose. I called for backup, and it seemed prudent to have ambulances on standby too."

D'Artagnan gave another weird, choked off laugh. "You really know everything, don't you?"

Athos' hand flexed on Aramis' leg. "Not quite."

"Aramis!" Porthos emerged from the crowd and stopped just in front of the sofa, looking Athos over, frowning in concern at d'Artagnan and then studying Aramis carefully. He shook his head, and the relief was practically palpable. "Use a bloody door next time, won't you?"

"Yes, next time I'll ask the murderous lunatic to just let me walk out instead," Aramis said, but the force of the words was lessened by the weary slur in his voice. Porthos crouched down next to d'Artagnan, pressing one hand to Aramis' chest and the other around the base of his throat. D'Artagnan wondered if it was to feel his heartbeat, and felt the same urge himself.

"I'll get help," Athos said, but it was a few seconds before he moved. Even then he seemed reluctant to go, his hand lingering near Aramis - but he left, jogging towards the doors to hail down some of what was probably a small army of paramedics. The local hospitals seemed to know by now that violent trouble dogged the Musketeers, and it was always worth sending a lot of people.

"I should-" Aramis made an aborted movement as if to stand, but froze in place with a groan. Porthos hurried to take Athos' seat, and pushed him gently back down.

"Yeah, I don't think we're going to let you do that," Porthos said wryly. "Hell, Aramis. If I thought it would do any good I'd make you take a holiday, but someone'd try to drown you at the beach."

"Some people just don't get my charming personality," Aramis mumbled, and Porthos chuckled.

"That's one word for it."

D'Artagnan shook his head, warmth filling him at the familiar bickering, and let his forehead rest against Aramis' knees. His head felt ready to split open, now, and he could feel his knuckles throbbing. But it was so hard to care when he had his family together, because one of them had done the impossible once again.

When Athos came back, he had two paramedics in tow. D'Artagnan reluctantly shuffled back to let them in, and Porthos had to move as well when they helped Aramis shift to let them examine the glass.

He couldn't stop watching as they worked, even though he'd have liked to look away from the reminder of how close Aramis had come to dying. The others waited beside him, united in the strange vigil.

"It was good, what you said before," Porthos said suddenly, his voice gruff.

D'Artagnan startled. "What?"

"About the Musketeers. You're right. The idea of us, that ain't somethin' they can ever take."

His throat felt tight. "Yeah. For as long as we're fighting, and longer."

Porthos' hand was a reassuring weight on his shoulder. Athos, on d'Artagnan's other side, studied him carefully.

"Are you alright?" he said in a low voice, echoing d'Artagnan's earlier words. "You look like you took a beating."

Was he alright? Some crazed man with a grudge had nearly taken away d'Artagnan's family today. His stomach ached from the blows earlier, his head was way beyond what a couple of paracetamol could help with, and he was starting to think he might have broken a finger fighting those men.

But Aramis had survived a fall out of a second storey window, and was currently joking about it with the paramedics. Porthos and Athos were beside him,

"Yeah," d'Artagnan said. "I'm good. Although," he said suddenly, "I'm with Porthos. I think we need a holiday."

"I don't know," Athos said, sounding thoughtful. "I'll have to talk to your boss."

Porthos snorted, and d'Artagnan broke out into a laugh that finally sounded full and normal again.

When Aramis was at last led slowly out to a waiting ambulance, Porthos followed automatically with a promise to call the others once they were at the hospital. Aramis must have been in a great deal of pain but he still smiled and clapped d'Artagnan on the arm as he passed. Athos took a few steps after them, wanting to follow, before turning back to d'Artagnan.

"I need to finish securing the scene. I'll find another paramedic, unless you want to go straight to the hospital?"

"No - I mean, yeah," he said, changing his default answer when he remembered that Aramis would be at the hospital. "I'll find Constance, we'll follow him. Look, Athos," he added, and caught Athos' arm as he began to turn away. "Marmion knew things he shouldn't have. He knew about Aramis - about how Savoy still affects him. And Porthos growing up homeless and - and some other stuff," he finished lamely, not wanting to bring up what Marmion had said about Athos. "It was personal, stuff we don't exactly make public."

"Someone fed him information," Athos finished. His voice was grim and quiet and his eyes were knowing, like he'd guessed what hadn't been said.

D'Artagnan lowered his own voice to match. "You think it was Feron? But why would he turn on Louis?"

"Perhaps he didn't," Athos said. "He may have seen in Marmion a way to destabilise the Musketeers, without understanding the depths of the man's anger at Louis." His face had taken on that look that told d'Artagnan he was thinking darker thoughts than he wanted to share, but he still gave him a small, sincere smile. "You did well today."

"I walked straight into-"

"A situation you could not have anticipated," Athos interrupted firmly. "You did well. I know what you saw, but Aramis is going to be alright. And I'll get the leave sorted, really. I think we all deserve a week or two. Sit down, I'll find Constance."

"Yeah. Alright. Thanks."

Athos began to stride towards the door, and called back without turning his head. "Code words! From now on, we're all texting with code words!"

D'Artagnan smiled despite himself and sank down into one of the chairs, taking care to avoid Aramis' sofa. It was the first time he'd been alone without purpose since he'd been leaning on his car outside - and didn't that feel like years ago. He lowered his face into his hands, mirroring Aramis' pose. His head was really pounding with a vengeance now, and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. But it was there, waiting behind his eyes, that smashing sound and the way Aramis' back had curved as he fell...

Gentle hands brushed over his hair, feather-light, trailed down to cup his face.

"He's alright," Constance said softly, pressing a kiss to his fingers. "I passed the ambulance on my way in. He's busy bragging to a paramedic about his beautiful girlfriend, honestly, he'll be OK. He's got a hard head."

D'Artagnan lowered his hands. It was worth letting the light back in to be able to see Constance, hair pulled back and eyes bright, somehow comforting and dangerous at once.

"It was - closer than usual," he admitted, because saying the words aloud couldn't make it any more real than it already was. "I really thought... I thought he must have died. Even Aramis, I know he's strong, but he's still just..."

"Human." Constance finished the sentence when he couldn't, and she slipped her hands into his to link their fingers together. "I know. There's nothing I can say that'll make that better, but today, right now, we're all still here. And the world is that bit safer today because we _were_ here. It's always dangerous, and that fear won't go away, for any of us, but it's worth it for the good we do. And I never would have met you if we hadn't both been Musketeers, none of us would have known each other. It's worth the risk."

None of the pain in his body went away, exactly, but it seemed to matter less as he stared at her. He felt full of wonder, of the kind only she ever brought out in him; the sheer amazement that she was real, that she was here, sharing herself with him.

He wanted to tell her what it meant to him, but what came out was, "I love you."

From the brilliant way she smiled, he thought maybe he'd got it just right after all.

She took his hand and pulled him up, and the world felt solid under him again.


End file.
